Colette : Season 10
by MegGenScull
Summary: With Abaddon dead, the boys and Cas still have to take care of Heaven, and reunite the warring angels. As things settle down, the boys are back on the road, saving people, hunting things. Living and breathing the old family business. CHAPTER 10: Dean, Sam, Meg and Cas go out to sort out a series of demonic possessions in Brooklyn, trying to chase down the king of Hell.
1. Better to Reign In Hell

_I have to apologise for how short this is, and how little happens. I promise that this will pick up, but I wanted to use it to really give an idea on what this fic will be focusing on; family, the brothers, all the highs and lows. The two of them against the world. As much as I love Hannah and Tessa and Gadreel, it's the humans who really capture my attention on the show. Them and the relationship between Sam and Dean._

_The initial fic (which you don't really have to read just know: *MAJOR SPOILERS, DO NOT READ IF PLANNING ON READING INITAL FIC* TFW captured an angel, who lead them to capture Gadreel with the help of Hannah, and some randoms: Romeo, Beatrice, Rosemary and Uriah. Gadreel relented and told them that they needed a reaper to open the stairway to heaven, so Cas found Tessa, who was reluctant because of Cas's involvement with the Fall, but came with him. It came to Abaddon's attention that Sam no longer had his tattoo, so she sent a demon to spy on him (Kelly) and then had her demons kidnap him, locking Dean in the bathroom with a curse. Sam was kidnapped and Crowley came to free Dean, giving him the Blade and sending him after Abaddon. Abaddon was nearly killed by Dean, so she evacuated her body and possessed Sam. Sam managed to shake Abaddon long enough to give Dean the edge, and the brothers held hands as Dean killed Abaddon and ultimately, Sam. The fic ends with Dean hugging his brothers broken body.) It can be found here. _

_My tumblr is .com if you want to yell at me or something. This can also be found on AO3, my username is neatomosquito._

_I aim to have my chapters over 8,000 words and update at least once a week. This fic will include OC's, violence and gore, major character death and angst. If any of those things aren't really your style, I suggest you go to Live Journal. That was a joke. I've never actually been on live Journal. No one's reading this. I can say what I want. Coo coo cachooo. Like a train. Ugh. I love myself. I got a 22 on the narcissist test. Go Megan._

_This will be a 23 chapter Fic, a chapter for each episode of the season. I love both boys equally (that's a lie I like Sam more but I relate more to Dean so) if I mischaracterise them, PLEASE let me know._

_I own nothing. All rights go to Eric Kripke and the CW. _

* * *

"And I heard you say

when you left that day

does everything go away?

Yes everything goes away."

-_Always Gold _Radical Face

* * *

"_You ever, uh, seen a grown man naked_?"

"Would you turn that off please?" Sam asked, entering the room, glaring at Dean and then pointedly staring at the television screen. He looked oddly out of place in the motel that they were staying in, Hair damp where he'd washed it, face smooth and eyes bright, alert, like he hadn't just been sitting around for the better part of two weeks. Dean didn't see the issue towards growing lazy and rested while they could, sneaking naps on the couch and hitting whatever bar hadn't kicked them out yet. Sam wasn't too for the second, if Dean was to take in Sam's near constant bitching about it. Nor was he really that hyped up over the first, Dean always managing to do _something _annoying while Sam tried to sleep. The one memorable time that he had drawn a penis on his brothers cheek with permanent marker had also been remembered for Sam's revenge. Three cans of tinned spaghetti, tanning oil and a whole lot of empty shampoo bottles.

Dean glanced over and grinned. "Why, is it making you uncomfortable, Sammy?"

Sam glared, not sitting down but moving further into the room. "It's _Sam_. Anyway, you know the rules. No porn, not while I'm in the room."

"It's not even porn," Dean looked back to the screen dismissively. The day was rolling down to an end and he'd tried to ignore how agitated Sam was being. Clean hair and day clothes, twitching fingers and determined glances. Of course, He was due back any minute now, but surely Sam should at least be prepared for _that_. The fighting? Well, Dean would mediate. As always. Get them both to bed without anyone throwing punches. Like always.

Sam gave him a look. "If you say, 'Explicit Romantic Plot Line' one more time, I swear to God―"

"Nah, it's Flying High," Dean said, eyes not moving from where the movie was playing out, staring hard, not seeing Sam in his jacket, not seeing the nearly packed bag by the door.

"You do know that that sounds like the name of a porno, right?"

"It's a comedy," Dean explained, waving his arms airily in front of himself for emphasis, before letting them drop to his lap. "Whatever. I was bored of this conversation like, three minutes ago."

Sam paused and was silent for a few minutes, finger tapping incessantly on his thigh. "When―"

"He said a few days, it's been a few days, he'll be back," Dean answered, rolling his eyes, before Sam could get the words out. "What's the rush, anyway?"

Sam looked purposefully nonchalant, brushing his too long hair back from his eyes and shrugging, unable to look up to meet Dean's gaze. "No rush. I'm just worried."

Dean scoffed and turned his attention back to the movie. "Worried. Ha. That'd be a first."

"Jesus _Christ_. Don't be such a jerk, Dean."

Dean raised his eyebrows, looking again over to his little brother. "Don't be such a little bitch, Sam."

Sam just made a tight face and looked away, sighing and staring pointedly towards the closed curtains over the window.

Dean sighed to himself and dropped over his arms so that he leant on his elbows, skin pressing onto his soft track pants. He glanced over to Sam and tried not to feel..._jealous_? Was that the word? That Sam could want their father back. It's not that Dean didn't love the guy, it's not that he didn't want him home, but as soon as he walked through the door, there'd be something wrong. Sam would pick it up or John would, and then they'd butt heads. And they wouldn't stop. Not until John found another one man job, or Sam took off to clear his head. And Dean would be caught in the middle. Smiling through gritted teeth, one hand on his father's chest, the other one pressed into his brothers.

Ordering Sam to cool his head, take a walk. Staying behind and apologising on Sam's behalf, saying that Sam didn't mean it, that he was just bitter, that is was the _life_...And John would just sit, alone on the table, staring dejectedly off into the distance, only perking up when Sam came home, eyes wary, but mouth pulling into a hesitant smile. And Sam would apologise, and the peace would last an hour.

Those hours were Dean's favourite time. The in-between. Where they'd watch whatever was on, and John would clean out his gun, over and over again, and Dean, when he was younger, he'd fall asleep to that sound, arm pressed into Sam's slowly breathing back, John's deft fingers working up a Hunter's Lullaby. In the very early years, when it was just them, and he wasn't old enough to take care of Sammy on their own, the clicks were slow and careful, wrong and disjointed, coupled with curses under breath and John shifting his leg on top of the bed, irritated. Sammy would be softly snoring, his hair brushing on Dean's shoulder, Dean's knee, Dean's arm, his breaths slow and calm, his face lost amid innocence and no concern. Then he'd found the diary, John had grown tougher, trained Dean to be tougher, trained little Sammy to hold a gun and everything started unravelling.

Years and years later, after _everything_, Dean would wonder when it happened. His switch, from child to adult. From home meaning a place and a time and _Dad_, to meaning a black car with toy soldiers stuffed down crevices, _Sam_. He and Sammy and Baby, that was home. On the road, singing as loudly as they could to a song they'd heard a thousand times. Dean knew all the lyrics and Sam did too, though he only sung the chorus, and the world would flash by like days slipping from spring to winter.

(_Oh God, Dean missed Sam so much. So damn much._)

There was a rap on the door and Sam stood to attention. And then Dean noticed the bag, and the clothes, and the shoes, and the time.

"Where are you going?" Dean asked, trying not to sound worried, trying not to be _terrified_. He gave Sam a once over and stood up. "A little late for the bowling alley with Jose and the boys, isn't it?"

Sam just looked down and clenched his jaw.

Dean felt something build in his stomach, something freezing and wrong. He felt it collide in it's iciness, in its invasion. It travelled up his spine and settled as a bad taste in the back of his mouth.

_No_.

The door opened and John walked in, smiling in greeting. "Hiya boys. How were things?"

"They were fine, Dad," Dean answered readily, walking over and shaking John's hand, helping him by taking the weapon bag over to the third untouched bed.

"Sorry you couldn't be on this one," John sighed. "It was a bitch, but it was a one-man bitch."

_Now, that sounds vaguely dirty_, Dean felt like saying, and would have said were it anyone but their father.

John looked over at Sam, sitting down heavily on the table. His quick Hunter's eyes drew to the bag and the clothes and the shoes. "Goin' somewhere, son?"

Sam cleared his throat, looked over and raised his chin.

Dean closed his eyes. _No, Sammy. Not now._

But when Sam spoke he was perfectly civil. Like he'd been practising it. Like he'd been practising it for _years_. "I've been accepted into College."

You could hear the American Flag over the entrance of the motel flapping in the wind.

"I'm sorry," John frowned, standing slowly, looking across at his proud youngest son with steady eyes. "You _what_?"

"Got accepted into college," Sam repeated, not looking at Dean, looking at _anywhere _but Dean. He stared hard at John though, those Hazel eyes burning with defiance. "Stanford, actually. Pre-Law."

"How the Hell did you get accepted into College?" John asked, and though he didn't mean it to undermine Sammy's intelligence, Dean winced anyway, seeing Sam's face darken, feeling the threatening storm of words and regret that would soon follow.

"I applied. I got a full ride," Sam replied monotonously, which Dean was grateful for. Keep it simple, keep it safe, please, _please_, don't tear their family apart. He clenched his jaw. "I'm going."

That taste, that had crept along Dean's tongue and through his throat, that taste that seemed the reverberate through his entire body, seemed to ache now. Just _ache _with exhaustion. Sammy had gotten into college. Sammy was leaving Dean. Sam was saying goodbye.

"The _Hell _you are," John snarled. "You think you can just leave us? Me and your brother? _Family_? What kind of son _are _you?"

Sam looked like he was expecting this, looked like he was ready with an answer, and Dean had to wonder how long Sam had known. How many times he'd nearly said, how many times Dean had nearly found out. "I'm not _just _your son! What the _hell _kind of father isn't _proud _of their kid who gets a full ride? To _Stanford_?"

"You're leaving us, and you want me to be _proud_?" John asked, laughing humourlessly. "You're a selfish son of a bitch, you know that?"

Dean balled his hands into fists. Wrong, wrong. Push and he'll just push harder. Sammy, so stubborn and defiant, especially in times like these, especially when he was told that he mustn't do something.

Sam nodded and gave a short bark of laughter. "Selfish? You got some nerve, Old Man. You drag me and Dean around the country and you expect us to just _wait _around for the goddamn monster that killed Mom to just fall into our lap? You ruined our childhood just so you could avenge some _memory_?"

"Don't talk about her like that," John said, and his voice was deadly cold, distant. The boys could feel it, he was close to losing it, close to _really _getting angry. "Don't you _dare_."

"If I didn't have a picture of mom, I wouldn't even know what she _looked _like," Sam spat. He hadn't set down his bag. If anything, his hand had tightened around the handle. "So yeah, I'm gonna go to college. Because _that's _the life Mom would have wanted for us. You really think she'd look down at this and be _happy_? You think she'd be ok with _any _of it?"

"I swear to god, Sam," John said, nearly shaking. "Shut your damn _trap_."

"Well, I'm going," Sam looked around the room, to John and then to Dean, finally to Dean, and whatever Dean must have looked like must have made Sam falter, must have made him pause. But then he moved on, eyes flashing bright and angry again. "I'm going to go and _make _something of my life."

"Saving people," John said curtly. "That's not _makin' _something of your life? That's not doin' good enough for you Sam? You gotta be some hot-shot lawyer to finally feel like you're _contributing_?"

"Don't twist my words," Sam told him harshly.

He turned and walked to the door, throwing it open. The breeze that rushed through it was like a punch to Dean's gut, like a sock in the jaw. Like the last song of a swan before it died.

"I swear, Sam," John said low, slow, desperate. "You walk through that door, you don't _ever _walk back. You hear me?"

Sam paused, looked over his shoulder and sent a tight, bitter smile their way. "Loud and clear."

The door slammed shut, cutting off another gust of wind. Sam disappeared outside, the motel room shook empty with only two people in it.

John was breathing heavily, but Dean couldn't hear anything, nothing but the ringing in his ears. Sam had just _left_. Left like...like all of it...their _family_...was nothing. Like they were _nothing_. Nothing and nothing and _nothing_.

"Goddamn it!" John swung his fist and flipped over the table, yelling and kicking out, catching the faux wood before it hit the ground.

Dean's breathing picked up, his heart rate crept up. _Nothing and nothing and nothing amen._

John spoke, but Dean couldn't hear the words. Just the sound and the tempo and the door slamming, again and again. _You should have seen, you should have known._

_Nothing and nothing and nothing._

"Dean!" John barked. "Dean!"

Dean blinked and looked over.

"Did you know?"

Did he know what? That Sam was going to leave? Or that Sam didn't want to stay? That Sam wanted to be a lawyer? Or that he didn't want to be a Hunter? That Sam knew what Mom wanted more than both of them, and they both knew it, or that Sam was never coming back?

Dean swallowed and shook his head slowly, trying to unravel all his thoughts, trying to sneak through all he missed on purpose. "No. I didn't know."

John watched him, half surprised, half upset. Then he bared his teeth and kicked again at the ruined table. "_Goddamn _it!"

Dean just stared off, towards the door Sam had exited. Exit stage left. Left. He'd left. Left Dean. Where was home now? Where? Left? Door? Sam? Come back?

_Nothing and nothing and nothing._

(_Nothing and nothing and nothing. He'd forgotten how consuming it was. Darkness and nothingness and hoplessness and death. And watching him die. And _death.)

Dean stared. He did not sleep that night.

Neither of them did.

* * *

_May 18th, 2014_

_12 Years Later_

Castiel did not leave to fight Metatron with the small angel arsenal he'd built around himself. Despite them begging him, Hannah with her wide pleading eyes, Tessa with her reproachful glances, her shifting feet, her arms that hug around herself, Gadreel, cuffed and stationary, doing nothing but looking at Cas quizzically, he made not move. Looked at the ground, to the sky, and back again, waiting and praying to their absent god. Crowley's news of Abaddon and the Winchester's had come as a shock, to them all. And so it was with that that Cas pressed his advantage. Dean's mark, the Blade, the only real way they could be sure of Metatron's defeat.

"Castiel," Hannah said, her voice hitched, in awe, in sadness, looking to the entrance of the motel.

Cas didn't need any more explanation. The impala, black as liquorice and sleek and friendly, shiny and the _Winchesters_. It was them, that car. It summarised them perfectly. Sam's softness in the supple leather of the seats, Dean's anger, sarcasm, in her sharp lines, her ragged beauty. Cas had to say, should the car ever become humanised, it would be a mixture between the both of them.

Cas felt his stomach clench as he took in the car. As he took in what he could see.

_No, no, no_.

There was only one person sitting in it. In the car that drove too slowly for the other to be crouching in pain in the back, waiting for the angels to heal him. The sun shone on the screen and rolled behind a cloud and Cas looked away.

Oh, _Sam_.

"Sam," Tessa said softly, closing her eyes and listening, wincing slightly as she pushed herself back into the warped veil where the spirits screamed, for what they feared was eternity. She opened her eyes, and she looked sad, downcast, not like the angel she was. In fact, as Cas looked around, at Hannah's heartbreak, Gadreel's shock, the angel's _grief_, they were _all _reacting like humans.

"Oh my," Hannah clutched at her arms, hugging them close to her waist. She looked up at Cas with wide, scared eyes. "It _hurts_."

Cas placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, closing his eyes and trying to steady his breathing. Trying to placate himself. For surely Dean would come out, and see them. And he would not want to explain something to people so wretchedly emotional.

If only he had his full grace, if only he and all the others weren't drained from their lives on earth, wasting their powers, watching as it dwindled to nothing, watching as the last precious drops were needed for something much bigger than one man.

If only.

Dean walked slowly out of the car, his bloodstained clothes clinging to his middle, taking in each of them coolly, only opening up fully when he met Cas's eyes. Cas almost looked away, from all that _misery_. But the grief, that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that Dean was _used _to feeling this way, _used _to feeling his whole world shatter. Then Dean closed again, and he didn't even look up to see Tessa's knowing eyes.

"Sammy's..." Dean clenched his jaw and didn't finish the sentence. "Abaddon...the bitch possessed him and..." Dean looked up, this time at Cas, like he was begging forgiveness. "And he told me I had to."

Cas felt it steal through him, that poison, the loss, the way Dean looked at him, his eyes clenched, and yet he looked so like a child.

"Abaddon is dead?" Hannah asked hesitantly, looking to Cas to see if she were being appropriate.

Cas nodded deftly once, casting her a grieved look. She looked slightly stricken as she realised that she'd been insensitive. Cas knew that she'd only wanted to help, only wanted to...to be _proper_. Maybe one day Cas would teach her how to be human. Perhaps one day, after the pain of losing her friend passed, she would want to become one herself.

"Yeah, Dorothy'd that witches ass," Dean said, not even attempting a smile. Cas wished that he would not. It hurt more than anything, to see a human smile through pain. More than _anything_.

"His death was...unwarranted," Gadreel said, eyes fixed on the ground, blinking thrice quickly. He swallowed. "He was a good man."

Dean ignored him. He looked at Cas. "I...his...Sam's in the back seat. I couldn't..." _Leave him_. Even though he'd already left. He balled his hands into fists. "We have to..." Dean worked his jaw furiously and blinked away tears.

Cas nodded heavily, looking around to Gadreel, Hannah and Tessa. "You are dismissed."

Hannah wavered, looking tenderly towards Dean, before placing a hand on Gadreel's arm, leading him away. It wasn't strong, or overbearing. It was the touch of someone with compassion, with empathy. A sharing of warmth between two people who'd lost their way.

Cas stared after them, pausing for a moment, Tessa unmoved from his side.

When Cas caught himself and looked back to Dean, he saw that he and Tessa were locked on each other, eyes holding the others, refusing to let go.

"Can you..."

"Hear him?" Tessa asked, and her voice only shook slightly, the wince from before, when she'd reached out her mind not forgotten by Cas, who moved closer to Dean, closer in order to comfort his friend. She smiled slowly, sadly, but she nodded. "He's..." _Screaming with the rest of them. Walking around in uncertainty, begging for an end, for a rest. _"He's calling to you, Dean."

Cas frowned at her, confused. It was insensitive to say as a lie, but how could it be the truth? How could his spirit yell so strongly, so vividly, that Tessa could recognise it? Perhaps Cas didn't give the Reaper enough credit. Perhaps she was better than he thought she was. But Cas couldn't be sure. What he could be sure about was that when she said it, Dean's eyes brightened with something dark. His shoulders hitched into strength.

"What is he saying?"

Tessa shrugged, miserable. "What they're all saying." She looked across the motel, across into the empty air. "They just want to go home."

* * *

Cas suggested that they burn Sam's body that night, pay their respects and then, if Dean was strong enough, go after Metatron in the morning.

"Not just yet," Dean said, staring at his brothers unmoving figure from the doorway of the motel room they'd decided to lie Sam out on. His gaze wasn't hungry with despair, or vacant. Just sort of inquisitive, lonely. "I can't let him go just yet."

* * *

Dean slept on his own, in his own room that night. Normally it would have felt empty, cold, without Sam's breaths, without his brother walking around the room agitated, or curled up with the laptop, screening for the next gig. But after having his own room in the Men of Letter's bunker for the past year or so, it had come second nature. To fall asleep without someone else having to be there, to wake up screaming, and pretend like everything was fine when the other person sat up, gasping, asking what the _hell _was wrong.

But he'd gotten used to it, to the point where he almost preferred it. But now, lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, he wondered how he'd ever managed to sleep at all.

"I recommend counting sheep," a familiar smarmy British voice said from the foot of Dean's bed.

Dean didn't jump when he saw the demon standing, his scruff casting long spindly shadows down his chin, his eyes fittingly darkened in the low light. "Son of a bitch," Dean snarled. "You have any idea what time it is?"

Crowley looked confused. "Should I?"

Dean rolled his eyes and sat up more fully. "The hell you want, Crowley?"

"I heard about Moose," Crowley shrugged. "Thought I'd come pay my respects. Problem, frater?"

Dean frowned.

Crowley sighed. "_Brother_. Latin for _brother,_ dumbass. Don't know why the _smart _Winchester couldn't have been the one to survive―"

"_Hey_," Dean snapped, bundling the bed clothes in his hands. "You don't get to _talk _about him."

Crowley put his hands up in a mock surrender pose. "Alright, alright. Tetchy, tetchy Dean, my boy. I've just come to offer a favour."

"Unless you have some sure-fire way of bringing Sam back," Dean stated. "I don't want to hear it."

"Ah, no, unfortunately," Crowley sighed. "Sorry. Unless you want to sell your soul again, of course. There's always option number desperado."

Dean's heart rate quickened. If he brought Sam back like that, again, Sam would never forgive him. "No," Dean said quickly.

"Clever boy," Crowley smiled. "See? The thing does learn."

Dean glared pointedly at Crowley's beaming smile. "Really, Crowley, get to the point."

"Just come to offer my services," Crowley said easily. "You know, we go way back, Dean. Apocalyptic times...ah, those were the days."

"Amazing," Dean stated coldly.

"Right, sorry, another sore subject. Is there anything I _can _talk about around you?"

"You could _explain _why you're―"

"Yes, yes," Crowley interrupted, bringing up a hand and stopping him before he could repeat himself. "At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I am here to help you Dean. Your brothers soul, do you know where it is?"

Dean frowned. "Not in Heaven? Why the hell would I tell you?"

"I can keep it safe, keep it dormant," Crowley said listlessly, glancing over to Dean, Used-Car-Salesman painted over his mouth in thick, red, paint. "Your brother will know nothing but rest."

"Yeah," Dean barked a bitter peal of laughter. "I'd trust you with my brothers soul. Right."

"I'd take care of it, Dean," Crowley said, almost defensively. "I'd make sure it stayed quiet and still. I'd _save _him, Dean."

Dean stared at the demons face for a suspended number of seconds. "Go to hell, you slimy little bitch."

Crowley looked flustered now. "I'm trying to _help_, Dean! Damn it! You really want your brothers soul just _floating _around? I could summon it and trap it in a _second _and I'm coming here for your permission."

"You still haven't given me a straight answer," Dean said, calm, verging on hysterical. "_Why_?"

"Because _I told you where Abaddon was_!" Crowley finally snapped. "I sent you on this Mission Impossible. And Sam's death, is _on me_."

"Yeah, it is," Dean said, gritting his teeth and staring hard at the king of hell's face. "But..." _You weren't the one who had to stab him! You're not the one who had to do what he asked of you! _Dean paused and gathered his thoughts. He was _not _D 'n' M-ing with the king of Hell. "There's _nothing _you can do, _nothing_, to fix that. So...so _leave_. Just _go_."

"Let me do this, Dean, Damn it!" Crowley snapped. "No wonder no one ever tried to _help _you. You don't accept _anything _unless you made it with your own hands. _Let me save your brother_!"

Dean closed his eyes, and he thought. He thought about the human blood and about Sammy, little Sammy, his soul bright enough to guide a host of angels home, lost and wearying of the world. Dean didn't know how long time passed through the underlayer, where Kevin was, where all the lost souls were, but he did know that any time was too much time. That it would be like a sort of hell, in there, bodies and souls pressed tight together, hot breaths and screaming, fingernails digging into your skin. What did that airlessness do to a person? What did that _terror_ do to a soul? What would happen, when they did get to Heaven, _if _they got to Heaven? Would Sam recognise him..._oh, God_, would he _recognise _him? The years..._how long..._no...but..._no, no, nothing and nothing._

Dean felt every muscle flex, every tremor in his body heighten, curl around in his blood, turn him from defiant to terrified. "Ok," and the words fell like drops of poison, snaking out of a dropped wine glass. "Ok."

Crowley looked surprised, the shock of Dean's admission melting the concern (actual _human _emotion) off his face. "Wait...really?"

"Yes," Dean stated heavily. He looked steadily up. "I hear of _anything_―"

"You'll kill me, you'll torture me, feed my innards to my own dogs, yadda yadda, heard it all before," Crowley cut in. He smiled at Dean, and should Dean have not known better, he'd say it would almost be genuine.

"Oh no," Dean promised. "It'll be a lot worse than that."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "I've heard that one now and again as well."

They stared off, trapped in their own little world for a few minutes, Crowley's smile still tickling at the corners of his mouth.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You, uh, going? Or do you wanna stay for the After Party?"

"Oh, don't be vile Deanna."

Dean nodded towards the door. "Exit, stage left."

The smile dropped and Crowley scowled. "I _despise _human blood."

He disappeared and Dean stared off into the space where he had once been. The darkness of the room seemed to retract away from him as the moon and the stars crept slowly through the window, casting the room awash, the thing that had been attracting the darkness melting away to nothing. Dean felt his hands slowly relax, and he leant back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

He closed his eyes, he thought about Sam, he did not speak, he did not sleep.

* * *

Dean was seven and Sam was three. The world was bright then, Sam had scruffy hair and a smile that could charm money out of a miser. Dean had started school. He liked it, he liked learning, being with other kids his age. He's ask them if they had a Sammy, _uh, sorry, little brother_, and they'd shrug or nod or shake their head.

The teacher would ask Dean when she'd be able to meet his parents. He told her that his mom was dead and that his dad was busy. But that his brother would see her, see her anytime she wanted. That Sammy was real special, and smart enough to join in their class, should she let him.

She'd just shake her head, laughing, saying that Sammy was too young, that Dean should be able to have some time away from his brother. Dean frowned and said that he didn't want to spend time away from Sam, that something might happen. She didn't really laugh after that.

Dean would come home from school and Sam would be sitting on the table, legs kicking. John would be researching in the corner, frowning over mounds of research. Sam looked up to Dean.

"Why don't we have a mom?"

* * *

Tessa kicked Dean's door down, barrelling through the door, eyes wide, fearful.

"Dean," she said, looking to him, scared. "I can't...I can't _hear _him."

"Hear who?"

Tessa closed her eyes. "_Sam_."

When Dean didn't react, she opened her eyes and looked at him, dumbfounded. "What, don't you care? Your brother is―"

"Safe," Dean finished for her. "He's safe." Like a mantra. Like if he repeated it often enough, it might come true.

Tessa recoiled and tilted her chin. "Dean, what did you do?"

* * *

14 and Sam was already a pain in the ass. Dean couldn't imagine him at 15, and oh god, _16 and 17_. Dean was glad he'd cut the crap out early, all the moaning and listening to long, slow ballads about love and loss. It was irritating. It irritated him, it irritated their father and it irritated the hell out of Dean, who was sick of feeling sorry for himself by the third week.

Sam's first hunt. Your typical salt and burn. Not too much to handle, Dean didn't think. Now that Dean was old enough to stay back and completely take care of Sam, John left for longer and longer. They got to stay in the same place for a more substantial amount of time, which was good, because Sam got to make friends and get somewhere with his schoolwork, but it was bad, because every time they stayed somewhere long enough, someone saw how smart Sam was. And then College came into the picture.

As if Dean needed some Law-School transfer, who thought that they were better than everyone else, filling Sam's head with thoughts of college, of a future, of a life, of _hope_... Dean knew he was being selfish. Selfish and bitter. But he couldn't help it. Sam leave, and then what? Dean would be alone, with their father. He'd be without Sam.

Dean honestly didn't like thinking about it.

Sam sat rigid on his bed, working through math problems.

Dean came into the room.

Sam looked up, not hesitant, only curious. "Hey Dean, you ever think about going to College?"

* * *

"Gadreel is right," Cas nodded across at the angel in question and Gadreel seemed a little taken aback, if not thankful. "There is no way to get into heaven apart from the staircase."

"But Metatron will be _watching _it," Hannah insisted, irritated. "He'll know as soon as we arrive."

"He'd know anyway," Romeo put in.

Gadreel shook his head slowly. "That is not necessarily true. He might look the part of a God, but in reality, he is simply an angel who has granted himself more powers than he should. He would not see us, not for the first few milliseconds, if we were to find another route into Heaven."

"There _are _no other routes," Cas reminded him.

Gadreel nodded uncomfortably. "That is true."

Hannah let out a huff and Romeo nodded seriously, seeming a little overwhelmed that they'd let him and Beatrice in on their conversation. The second angel was just watching with the air of mild disinterest. The skin of her vessel, a few shades darker than her eyes, now warmed to the building of the sun as it approached the herald of morning.

"I think it might be time for a break," Beatrice suggested.

"You're right," Cas nodded. "We have been talking for many hours."

"And still we are nowhere," Hannah summarised blatantly.

"Would you perhaps like to go find Tessa?" Cas asked of her, cautious.

However, she seemed relieved that she'd been given a job to do, go from point A to point B, and if you don't find what you're looking for, trundle off to point C. It was the kind of thing angels were built for, clear cut instruction, no room for compromise or second guessing decisions. There was a sort of beauty to their order. Cas understood this, but he also understood that it was too easy to persuade, too easy to move the pieces in your favour when you were in charge of a group as loyal and obedient as the soldiers of Heaven. And most of the time, what they were ordered to do was far from as harmless as locating a temporarily wayward reaper.

"At once," she reported proudly, flitting out of the door, like she'd regained her wings.

"What of us?" Beatrice asked, inclining her head to Romeo.

Cas glanced at them. "Uh, you are...just dismissed."

They followed Hannah out of the door and off to where the other angels would be waiting for them.

Then it was Gadreel and Cas.

Gadreel cleared his throat awkwardly. "And, uh, what of me, Castiel?"

Cas smiled softly. "You were with Sam Winchester for a long time."

"He cared for you deeply," Gadreel said, nodding. "You and Dean. Very much."

Cas closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. "I would like you to tell me more of him. Tell me the soft things, not the personal things." His eyes opened, blue and searing, into Gadreel's. "Do you understand what I mean?"

"You miss him," Gadreel stated, almost as if he was surprised. "I thought..."

"What?" Cas asked. "That I was not able to pose a front to my soldiers? I may not be a leader, but I'm no fool, either."

Gadreel paused. "I think of you as a leader."

"Thank you for the compliment," Cas said. "But I would like, now, to mourn my friend."

Cas watched the sunrise and Gadreel gathered his thoughts. The two angels sat, facing Aurora through the window of a shitty motel, basking in her glow.

"Sam Winchester had a bright soul," Gadreel stated, almost detached. "Sam saw a light at the end of this. He saw a way out."

Gadreel stopped and Cas looked over. "Is everything alright?"

Gadreel was looking stoically ahead. "I would...I would like to not think about Sam. And his death. If that is ok by you, Castiel."

Cas's heart gave a tremor. "That is perfectly alright."

Gadreel would have never spoken to Sam, nor properly, not without anger or betrayal ruining their regard for each other, but Gadreel had seen Sam, seen him in his entirety. Been him, seen the world through his eyes. Castiel would not mourn deeply if Jimmy were to die. Jimmy was a special soul, but Castiel's real regard for him fell as far as the strength of his body. Gadreel, however, seemed almost attached. Seemed _mournful_.

They were interrupted by Tessa, marching in a sheepish Dean, his hair in disarray, his head hanging despondent.

Cas stood and Gadreel watched, attached to the table by the cuffs that were still around his hands.

"Tell them what you did," Tessa demanded, eyes blazing with fury and worry. "_Tell _them!"

Dean looked at Cas, and Cas saw two warring sides, Dean's nonchalance, and his friends regret. "Crowley made an offer I couldn't refuse."

"Your _soul_, Dean?" Cas demanded, looking at Tessa, hoping beyond all hope he was wrong.

"Worse," Tessa hissed.

Cas frowned, confused, and tilted his head towards Dean. "What does she mean, Dean?"

Dean shrugged. "I told you, Crowley made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

"Answer the question," Gadreel said from behind Cas.

Dean looked over at him and his face lost any warmth. "Oh, hey there Lucifer 2.0."

"Answer, Dean," Cas pressed heavily.

Dean glanced at Tessa, who was watching him with her hands tucked under her arms, her mouth pressed hard down on itself, her cheeks reddening slightly, looking as though she held in a scream. Dean looked back at Cas, who could feel desperation starting to pump through his veins.

"Crowley offered to take care of Sam's soul while we fixed Heaven," Dean said easily. "I agreed."

Cas paled. "You _what_?"

Dean turned from nonchalant to surly. "What? Better than crammed in with all the screaming, right?"

Tessa huffed, like she'd heard him say that before and stalked out of the room, her black hair swinging behind her as she tried to take hold of her anger.

"Tetchy," Dean said.

"_Dean_," Cas reprimanded.

Dean looked at him sharply. "_Don't_, Cas. Just _don't_, ok?"

"No," Cas said defiantly. "Sam was my friend as well. I won't let you do this to him."

"Friend?" Dean asked, repeating it with a severe laugh. "I'm...I _was _his _brother_. I was supposed to protect him. I was supposed to save him. So, I'm _sorry _if me trying to do _something _right somehow gets in the way of your little morality fest, because I will _not _rest until Sam's soul is in Heaven, until his soul is at peace."

"At what _cost_, Dean?" Gadreel asked, tiredly. "How many times will you allow this demon to control you?"

"Well," Dean said, hard. "I gave up on trusting angels. Thought the flip side might be worth a try."

"You don't mean that," Cas said.

"Oh, Cassie," Dean said, smiling, but there was no warmth in his eyes. They were so empty, like he was nothing, like all of this was for nothing, like the world revolved around nothing. _Nothing and nothing and nothing amen. _"I do."

* * *

This time, disposable angel minion number one came in the form of Rosie, possessing the body of a 16 year old leader of a chastity club. Number two was her best friend/part time benefited friend Riley, or Hazrael.

"So," Rosie said, chatting in the background while her TPTB was making nefarious plans right in front of her, torturing some poor shmuck and expecting her to retain absolutely 0 of what was spilling from its mouth. "You'll never guess what I heard on angel radio last night."

"What station were you listening to?" Hazrael asked.

Rosie giggled. "You're so funny, Haz! Haha, you should probably quote that on your blog, or something."

Haz looked offended. "Um, all I have on my blog is cats and jokes? That really offends me?"

Rosie laughed again. "Good god, you're just pulling them out of the air tonight, aren't you?"

Haz shrugged bashfully. "I guess so. I am pretty great, right?"

"Totally right," Rosie nodded enthusiastically. "Anyway, you know Metatron?"

"Oh, yeah, I call him Met," Hazrael nodded.

Rosie's eyes widened. "Whoa, wait, he told you to call him Met?"

"Sorry, what?"

"You know him, like on a first name, basis?"

"Haha, look, I can't understand you."

Rosie spoke a little louder. "You know him on a first name basis?"

Haz shrugged. "Still can't hear you. Maybe you should ask me something else."

Rosie frowned. "That's not how it works."

"Um, I find that really offensive?"

Rosie brightened. "Look! you can hear me now!"

Hazrael nodded enthusiastically. "Look at that! I'm all healed! Now, what did you hear about Metty?"

Rosie gushed back into her story. "So, you know how Castiel is like, building an army or something?"

"Or something," Hazrael nodded. "Yeah. I'm thinking of allowing him into my gang. What do you think?"

Rosie looked a little taken aback. "Well, uh, I think he already has a gang."

"Fair call, fair call," Haz nodded seriously.

"Anyway," Rosie continued. "Well, apparently it was all out of whack with what he had planned to happen―"

"Planned?" Haz asked.

Rosie nodded and rolled her eyes. "He wrote it all out like he hoped it would turn out. Like he predicted things, and then got upset when it didn't play exactly to how he thought it'd be? What a weirdo."

"I know," Haz shivered. "Imagine someone _actually _doing that."

Rosie frowned. "Uh, Metatr―"

"Metty. Yes. Continue."

"Metty did do that."

"I know."

Rosie frowned slightly, but then smiled. "Cool. Anyway, so, word is, he _cried_."

"NO!" Haz gasped.

"Yes," Rosie grinned fiercely.

"That's so WEIRD!" Haz yelled.

"I _know_," Rosie said, her voice proportionally quieter than his.

"Ugh," Haz flipped open the phone he'd taken off his vessel from the fall. "I'm telling _everyone_."

"Oo, can you send it via snapchat?"

"Too many characters."

Rosie nodded, sighing. "Fair enough."

"Angels-Possessing-First-Worlders problems, right?"

"_So_ right."

* * *

Of the council called together to discuss the final assault on Metatron, there was Rosemary, Beatrice, Romeo, Uriah and Hannah, along with Gadreel sat careful in the corner and Dean leaning on the wall, arms crossed over his chest. The morning was still afresh and the world was clear and new, crisp like it had turned over a new leaf, like the world was starting anew.

You wouldn't be able to tell, looking into the motel that day, the same angels arguing about the same age old things. A motel room left untouched, where a freshly dead Sam Winchester lay, his blood dry over his chest, his burnt out eyes hidden by closed eyelids.

Dean had sat by his brothers bed. He hadn't said anything, not like last time, when he couldn't seem to shut up. When he spilled out his heart, worked himself into a state and _killed _himself, _damned _himself. Kissed the devil and payed for the consequences.

"Dean," Cas said, almost softly. Dean looked over, and he _hated _how the angel looked at him. Like he understood, like he was _compassionate _to Dean's situation. Because _no one _could be. No one. No one understood, no one would _ever _understand. The only person who had a chance? Out for the count, lying on a bed where time would strip him further away, his soul nestled somewhere safe (_Please, oh please_). "Did you get all of that?"

"I heard," Dean said.

Cas looked like he didn't believe him, and Dean didn't put it passed the angel to chastise Dean like he was a student or something. But his friend just moved on, addressing Romeo on the group of Angels he'd be leading and what part of the mission they'd be carrying out.

Dean hadn't heard, but it didn't matter. He'd follow along as far as he had to, and then he'd branch off, find Metatron himself.

Sitting by Sam's bed, things started to click for Dean. Like how the world seemed to spin on this never ending high, how one man seemed to control that high, how that one man had more than enough power to bring Sam back.

And Dean fully intended to use it to the best of his ability.

Dean watched as Castiel moved through his ranks, placing a hand on Hannah's shoulder as he told her what she was to do. Smiling at Tessa when he instructed her. Tessa was avidly ignoring Dean, and he couldn't say that he blamed her. He'd ignore him if he was in her position. Giving Sam's soul to Crowley? Risky, but he couldn't...hadn't they suffered enough? Didn't the universe owe them a favour by now?

Cas called a Soul Mate a special case, and Dean had to wonder if all of this was balancing out the scales for his and Sam's never-ceasing epic 'bromance'. Were the people that had the most potential for happiness cursed to fall into a life where happiness was nearly impossible to come by? This fucked up world where the hits just _kept_ _coming_? Maybe Crowley was human enough from the trials, maybe Crowley truly felt the need to repent (_He's a demon, Dean_) and maybe Dean hadn't just ruined everything, but he needed this. He needed that soul to be kept safe.

He needed to give his brother all the softness in the world.

The word 'Soul Mate', it shifted, not unpleasantly at the bottom of Dean's stomach. That he had a person in the world, who was half of him, who would take him for all he was and never let go. Despite all the crap Sam had had to deal with while Dean was constantly distracted by the blade, Dean knew that it was true, that it existed.

The need for the blade ached constantly, but it was Sam's final asking, his final wish, that Dean put _down _the damned thing, _stop_. And so that, that pressure, was _everything _compared to the push that was the desire for the blade.

Dean would find Metatron. Dean would talk to Metatron. Dean would bring Sam back.

At the cost of the world?

_Sam had told Dean to stab him, hands clutching hands, last breaths, screaming, white light and last smiles. Tears in hair and on shirts, blood, blood and blood._

_Nothing and nothing and nothing, amen._

Dean stared ahead. The world could wait.

His brother needed him now.

* * *

REFERENCES

_The title of this chapter comes from the most famous quote of Paradise Lost, a book with characterization of Lucifer not unsimilar to spn's. "Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven." (or something like that. Google it, Heathens.)_

_The song "Always Gold" by Radical Face is credited with being THE Winchester bro's song. Every single lyric is perfect. Check it out. (If you want a Radical Face/Spn playlist, I also recommend Black Eyes and Welcome Home.)_

_The movie Dean is watching at the start is 'Flying High' or 'Airplane!' and is hilarious. Like literally hilarious. Go watch it._

_"Dorothy'd that witches ass" - Reference to the Wizard of Oz_

_"Mission Impossible" - that really bad movie with Tom Cruise where they steal things. I don't really know, I wasn't really watching. I went to be before it finished._

_Nothing and Nothing and Nothing amen - a shout out to "Terrible and terrible and terrible amen" from the book Dreams of Gods and Monsters, where Eliza's family, the cult that worships the angel Elazael uses that as their mantra._

_TPTB : stands for the Powers that be. Basically the peeps upstairs who call all the shots._

_{_"He wrote it all out like he hoped it would turn out. Like he predicted things, and then got upset when it didn't play exactly to how he thought it'd be? What a weirdo."_} - stab at myself and some of the fandom for being overly disgruntled when things didn't play out exactly as we'd wanted them to._

_Review!_


	2. Spirit in the Sky

_Hola Mishamigo's! (I know right, soooo original)._

_Here is Episode 2: Spirit in the Sky. A song about dying and going to heaven I guess. It's in that episode of s5 when Jo and Ellen come back for the first time._

_Classic._

_Warning: gore, minor character death._

_Researched: Tiers of heaven, angelic names_

_Rewatch: None_

_New Tags: Minor Character death, Heaven_

_I do not own Supernatural. If I did, this is how it would have ended._

* * *

"And it's whispered that soon

if we all call the tune,

then the piper will lead us to reason.

And a new day will dawn

for those who stand long,

and the forests will echo with laughter."

-_Stairway to Heaven, _Led Zepellin

* * *

Burning Sam's body shouldn't have hurt as badly as it did.

Because he was going to get him back, and with the power he was planning on using, he didn't need Sam's body. he didn't need anything, just enough persuasion and the First Blade.

But it hurt, wrapping his brother up in salt and fabric, placing him out on a pyre, watching as Sammy was engulfed, heat eating out his skin, peeling him down to ashes and embers.

Cas had stood next to Dean, in that back bit of town, where no one would stop long enough to see what they were burning. He had just stilled in companionable silence, breathing steadily, stars reflected in his eyes.

Cas had noticed some change in Dean, some hard gritted determination. The one that he had seen when Tessa had told him that Sam was yelling for Dean, the one that seemed unrelenting and _dangerous_.

"Do you..." Cas coughed awkwardly. "Do you want to say anything?"

The fire was dying down, and the heat from the flames was almost bearable now, not that Dean had stepped away as the fire's breath had first attacked them, unrelenting. He seemed determined to punish himself. As far as he could. Cas was worried about how far he'd go.

Dean didn't move his head, didn't move his eyes from where they were watching Sam burn. "No, thanks, Cas."

His voice had none of the malice that Cas had feared for, none of the sarcasm and defensive bite that they'd been dealing with since Sam had died. He just sounded small, small and tired. There, in the world with the sky turning over his head, Hell burning beneath his feet, millions and millions of people pushing passed him, wandering the earth.

There with nothing, with the promise of an angelic army and his brother in the hands of a demon.

"About Crowley―" Cas started, but Dean cut him off.

"I trust him, Cas," Dean stated unevenly. Like it was the first time he realised it. "I wish I didn't, but I do."

"He killed Meg," Cas said, his voice tripping over her name. He inwardly cursed. He shouldn't have felt as bad over her death as he did. She was a demon and she was evil and she was the one who had waited, day in and day out while he had been suffering from his madness. She was the one who had sat next to him..._Dammit._

Cas couldn't think about all he'd lost, not while Dean _broke_ over the something that was_so much_more.

Dean nodded slowly, and closed his eyes, as if he were ashamed. "I know."

* * *

Cas had placed angels as relief and backup around the centre in cafes and buildings, where the stairway was to be found. Gadreel had promised that should they just get him and Tessa to the opening, he would be able to convince the guardian of his sincerity and then somehow get Cas, Dean, Hannah, Romeo, Beatrice, Uriah and Rosemary inside, with their teams without arousing too much suspicion.

"Honestly," Dean said, unfeelingly. "I say we just gank whoever guards the stairway. Then Tessa open up the portal."

"But then Metatron would know of our intentions," Gadreel said, unsure.

"He might not," Dean pushed.

"But he _might_," Cas countered. "And that is more important."

The group had relocated to the warehouse that they'd held Esther in, Metatron's disgraced angel. She had been instrumental in locating Gadreel, but the memories of him giving into the power that the blade had held over him before Sam had begged him to stop weren't positive ones. Enjoying it at the time just made it that much harder, just made it that much more _disgusting._

And then being there, being there as Dean _without_Sam made the wound that was his brothers passing gape that much more. His ghost seemed to smile around corners, his voice seemed to carry itself in the wind.

_No Dean, you're not turning into me_.

It ached inside of him, burning like star dust, acid running into his lungs, moving its way through to his stomach, searing itself in his fingers. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Come back, come back._

_Don't leave me here alone._

"He would know anyway," Hannah said, pressing her old argument. "If we walked through the door."

Cas looked unconvinced. "I do not give the same heed to his power as you do, but he is less likely to know of that. Heaven is a large place. There is much that he does not know of it, places that can't always be watched."

"And he wouldn't be watching the entrance to the stairway?" Hannah asked, raising her eyebrow.

"I only mean that us arriving there, over slaughtering the angel guarding the staircase would at least _get_us somewhere before he sent angels to apprehend us."

"He would still know," Hannah said, frustrated.

"There are no other ways to get into Heaven," Cas said evenly. "And killing this sentry is a sure-fire way of summoning more angels before the door is even opened. If we can get Gadreel to distract it, then get Tessa to open the doorway, we might have a chance."

"About that," Tessa said, looking from Cas to Gadreel. "How the hell am I suppose to open the door in the first place?"

Gadreel shock his head. "I am not sure, sister. I can tell you that you will be overtaken by some instinct. That is all I managed to gather from the stairway in my visits."

Tessa nodded sharply. "Fair enough."

"What of us, Gadreel?" Rosemary asked formally, like Romeo, a little overexcited that she'd been employed into the main series of events.

"You'll wait off to the side," Cas said, not missing her eagerness, but seemed to find it more worrying than amusing, like Dean had. "Wait for our signal that you can lead your charges into Heaven. You know your positions?"

Rosemary and Romeo both nodded quickly, while Uriah and Beatrice watched their friends with tired eyes, nodding absently, recalling the discussion from the previous day.

"Ok," Cas looked around at each of the people gather in the room, pausing heavily on Dean before continuing on. "Are we ready?"

* * *

"Are you ok, Dean?" Cas asked hesitantly, standing in the doorway to where Dean had stashed his stuff, watching as he packed his belongings into the bag with a detached sort of perfection.

Dean blinked and looked over, distracted from whatever thought he'd been chasing. "What? Oh yeah, fine."

Cas nodded, even though he didn't believe him. Cas wandered into the room, feet scuffing on the floor as he dragged his heels, slowing as he neared Dean.

He watched Dean pack his things for few minutes before Dean slammed the contraption atop his bag and turned and glared at Cas. "What do you want, Cas?"

Cas flinched back slightly, nervous. He wasn't sure how Dean would react to what he was going to bring up, but he had to know, had to know the extent to all the damage that had been wrought. He steeled himself and looked hard at Dean, unrelenting, iron and strength.

"How are you feeling?" Cas asked, and before Dean could answer with some half-cocked sarcastic bullshit, he nodded to Dean's arm. "With the mark?"

Dean paused and then harshly turned back to what he was doing, filing through his belongings quicker than before Cas had walked in. "Fine."

"No more..." Cas drifted off, not sure how he should address the topic. "No more urges to..."

"Kill, maim, destroy?" Dean guessed, his voice lathered in bitterness. He laughed humourlessly. "No, no. Nothing like that."

"Maybe killing Abaddon helped sate it," Cas mused, thinking privately that killing Abaddon would more likely to have an entirely different affect. Cas couldn't imagine the blade relenting, Cain's curse slowing down. Nothing, not even the death of a Knight could do that.

Dean shook his head. "I don't know, but I don't think so, Cas."

"Oh," was what Castiel came up with in response to that.

Dean looked over, tired and amused. "Oh?"

Cas nodded shortly. "Uh, yes."

Dean shook his head, smiling, before focusing back on packing, the smile slowly peeling off. He coughed and swallowed and when he spoke, Cas could only just hear him. "I promised."

"Promised?" Cas repeated, with all the softness that Dean had treated it with. "Promised what?"

"That I'd stop," Dean clarified, distracted. "Promised Sammy. When he was..."

Nearly dead.

"You know that the mark is a curse," Cas stated.

Dean shot him a quizzical glance. "Yeah, of course. Cain gave the bare details before I got all inked up."

"Ok," And Cas nodded to Dean, to the absence of Sam. And then again, he repeated it, like he was talking to himself. "Ok."

* * *

Hannah felt _wrong_about forgiving Gadreel. He had nearly killed her, _had_killed her friends, her brothers and sisters who had just wanted somewhere safe to stay, someone safe to follow. She'd avoided Nathaniel, Malachi and all the other little factions that had formed. Rebekah's penitents had seem like the best option of the lot, but of course, she had died, and Hannah had been left with nothing.

Hannah had looked for ages to find herself a vessel. Unlike the other angels, she refused to trick her human charge into giving permission. She addressed them stoically. Even then, however, it had been worryingly easy. Call yourself an angel and suddenly, you've found yourself a new home and a thousand people willing to do anything for you, should you just promise to do something for them. It was blind and it was wrong, and Hannah was worried about what would happen, should Metatron ever try to press that to his advantage.

The thing Hannah hated more than anything was those who possessed children. You appear to a child, with white wings and a halo, smiling and promising that they were special, that you were destined for great things, and the child would say yes. No questions asked, no thinking about something they didn't have a chance to understand, just yes, in all its entirety and all its finality.

Hannah _hated_angels like that.

She was to be the one Gadreel was mock arresting, taking her up to Metatron as a leader of the rebel cause. They thought it made more sense than Cas, who was known for being notoriously difficult to capture, and who had had much more practice with being human than Hannah had.

Gadreel lead her in silence to the back alley street, where rubbish tumbled around in disarray. Where the doors of houses were firmly shut and the windows often boarded.

"Oh no," Hannah whispered, looking to where Gadreel had said the sentry for the stairway was, and see a little girl sitting idly amongst the rubbish.

Gadreel's hand tightened on her arm and she could tell he hated it as well, that he believed humans to be more of more worth than they were granted. Hannah wondered if he had always known that, or if he had discovered it while on earth. Discovered it possessing Sam.

"Sister," Gadreel called out, and the youth angel stood, dusting her hands off on her skirt. She couldn't have been more than eight, the vessel, and the way the angel wore her was so _wrong_. Too much wisdom in innocent eyes, too much packed into one tiny thing.

"Gadreel," the angel greeted calmly, casting her eye across to Hannah. "You have succeeded in capturing a servant of Castiel?"

Gadreel nodded triumphantly. "Indeed, I have."

The sentry cast Gadreel a hard look. "Metatron is unhappy with you."

"When is he not?" Gadreel joked, but the angel didn't seem amused.

"You left your post at the Horn of Gabriel," the angel reminded him. "Many angels arrived and had to be disposed of by...other means."

Gadreel's tensing would not have been noted by the sentry, but Hannah felt it, his hands digging further into the flesh of her vessel. It wasn't painful, just slightly uncomfortable, and Hannah forgave him for it. Every angelic death was a piece of God lost.

When he didn't answer, the angel narrowed her eyes. "Well? What have you to say in your defence, Gadreel?"

Gadreel swallowed. "I beg forgiveness, sister. I was tracked down by Castiel and his legion and held by them, before managing to escape."

The sentries gaze hardened. "You were captured and escaped? Where is Castiel now?"

"I do not know," Gadreel stated. "He was not there when I escaped. If he were, it would be he that I bring you now to answer for his crimes against Heaven."

"What of you, Hanael?" The angel looked over Hannah, using her full name, of which she hadn't heard for an age. "How do you fair?"

"Well, Samael," Hannah said tightly, finally recognising the angel, placing it's angelic features to the angel that she had met many years ago. "Thank you."

Samantha smiled. "And how long do you expect that to last?"

Hannah's mouth curled into a smile too, but hers was small and feral and taunting. "As long as I need it, _sister_." She spat the last word like an insult. Samael narrowed her eyes, and behind the sentry, a Reaper was stretching out her fingers.

* * *

Tessa placed her hand on the wall where the angelic encryption was written and she closed her eyes, frowning hard. She moved it slowly along the chipped bricks, reaching out, fingers dragging across the white paint that, if you didn't know any better, you might call graffiti.

Then she gasped and her eyes flew open.

"What is it?" Cas asked worriedly, coming to stand beside her.

But Tessa's eyes were bright and _happy_. "Can you feel it, Castiel? Can you feel Heaven?"

Cas shook his head, small, frowning in confusion.

Tessa laughed, and Dean considered that he'd never seen her so happy, never seen _anyone_so happy. Cas watched her with a small pining look, jealousy had never been worn well by the angel, but now he just looked sad, distant, humbled by longing. Dean saw that, he saw it in himself whenever he thought of his brother.

God, he missed Sam. He missed him like he was slowly hacking out his own heart, like he was removing all that was good about himself and serving it up, ice cold and steaming. He missed Sam like the ache that just wouldn't go away.

Dean heaved himself into the task at hand, Heaven, Metatron. He shuffled uncomfortably. Seeing Tessa's exultation and Cas's longing, it made it harder to even address the last thing on his list.

Discuss his future with Metatron. Discuss _Sam's_future. And then somehow make it all ok.

Dean took a deep breath and watched Tessa as she closed her eyes again and pressed her palm square to the middle of the diagram, a white light gathering and pulsating under her fingers.

* * *

Samael, Samantha, looked at Hannah with mocking superiority. "You have too much faith in yourself, sister."

_You're wearing the body of an eight year old and guarding the only portal to Heaven,_Hannah wanted to snap snidely back. _Judge yourself before me._But she didn't she just regarded the angel coolly.

Samantha sighed and turned back to Gadreel. "I'm afraid that we need a Reaper to open the portal, unless you have one?"

Gadreel coughed, and Hannah wished that he were better at deceit. They were going to get found out. She couldn't see Tessa, Cas and Dean, but she could imagine that they were gathered around the stairway now, Tessa instinctively opening it. The feeling of home, of heaven pressing through every cell of the Reapers skin. Tessa was old, and she hadn't been to Heaven in an age. Hannah wondered what that would feel like, that comfort, that presence.

Samantha sighed. "So that's a no, I'm assuming?"

"Uh, yes," Gadreel admitted sheepishly, and Hannah had to admit that if it weren't for his fingers digging nervously into her arm, she wouldn't have noticed anything wrong with what was going on.

Samantha shrugged delicately, her little girl shoulders rising and falling neatly. "No problem. I shall have to summon one. Many have joined Metatron's unit, you know."

"Oh, I am aware," Gadreel said, and Hannah had to hide a smile at his irritation. She felt a little nostalgic when all that the angels had to worry about were office quips like this. Who was more beloved by Gabriel, and when he and the four other archangels disappeared, who was most treasured by Raphael, Michael, Naomi. It was petty and Hannah had tried to keep out of it, her job mostly on strategies for peace, of which became redundant under Michael's leadership. But she kept at her job even as she was reassigned, and with it kept her head about how to succeed in Heaven. Which she didn't, she had no plans on doing so. She was content.

Hannah brushed the emotions aside. Human emotions. How did anyone deal with them?

She'd been content. She wanted to go home.

Samantha seemed as much amused by Gadreel's snark as Hannah, that she also smiled. "Quite. Now..." Samael's eyes when out of focus and she swayed suddenly. Then she blinked, gasping, horror seizing her face. "The portal!"

"Yes?" Gadreel asked, easily puzzled, letting go of Hannah, her loose cuffs dangling over her fingertips.

Samantha hadn't noticed anything wrong. She looked at Gadreel with wide, frightened eyes. Now, at least, she looked the part of an eight year old. "Someone is opening the portal!"

Gadreel let go of Hannah completely and her cuffs fell to the floor. Simple and steel. Human and breakable.

Samael's eyes widened as she realised what was going on. Hannah had never been held. She turned furiously to Gadreel. "You! You defy Heaven a second time? After all Metatron has _done_for you? For us?"

"He cast _us_out of Heaven, little sister," Gadreel pulled out his angel blade and Hannah let hers drop into her hand, shifting her stance and holding the knife comfortably in her hand. "We owe him nothing, not even his own life."

"How _dare_you!" Samantha hissed, her own blade falling into her hand, taking in the sight of the two angels advancing on her with their own weapons. "I'll kill you _all_!"

Gadreel stabbed forward, striking across where Samantha had once been. The young angel stepped out of the way, flinging her hand open and casting Hannah across the alley as she kicked Gadreel into the opposite wall.

Hannah hit the wall hard, her head smashing into the brick, body colliding with the floor. Somewhere within her, she recognised that if she were human, she would be dead now. But she wasn't, her sight was dizzy, her mouth felt stuffed full and her hands ached with little movement. She groaned and rolled over, pressing herself onto her stomach, trembling with the effort to _keep going_.

She looked across and made out Gadreel, bloody and stretched out against the wall, looking up at the angel who stood over him, her own angel blade flexed at the ready, tiny foot inside it's red shoe pressed cruel against his neck.

Hannah tried to reach out, but her arm could only stretch out a centimetre or so before flopping to the ground. She was healing quickly, her head almost repaired, her cracked bones resealing and swelling brain calming down. But it wouldn't be fast enough.

She could make out what they were saying, now that the ringing in her ears was calming down, now that her body was readying itself to fight.

"―_humanity_¸ Gadreel!" Samael's voice was high pitched and _furious_. "You are _weakness_and _illness_and _death_!"

Gadreel made no move to defend himself, only look up at the angel standing over him, swallowing a mouthful of blood. "I am _sorry―_"

"_Liar_!" Samantha snapped, kicking him hard in the windpipe, collapsing the tube. Hannah watched, mortified that as she lifted her foot away, it popped back into place as the angels body rushed to heal itself.

"I do not lie," Gadreel gasped, and his voice was gravelly, like he was coated in needles. "I would not. I served Heaven and its original purpose. I will not let Metatron rule over the humans."

"You would die for them?" Samael asked, voice tight with disgust. "You would _kill_your own, for the hairless apes?"

"Do not speak of them as such," Gadreel warned her, shifting slightly, before her foot came down again on his neck. "They are flawed and it is of this that they are beautiful. Don't you see, Samael? The miracles they perform every day? We were created to be perfect―" her throat cut him off as hard as she could, but even from where she was, Hannah could make out the rest of what he was saying. "and they were not, and yet they are still..._good_...pure and true."

Samantha inclined her head condescendingly. Hannah edged onto her feet. "You would _die_for your little...miracles, Gadreel? Your perfect little flawed humans?"

Gadreel did not look away from her eyes. "I would."

Hannah reached out, staggering across, strength growing with each step, but it was all too_late_.

Samael span her blade in her hand and stabbed it down, watching as the grace exploded out of Gadreel, white light screaming from his eyes and his mouth.

Hannah watched, despair overcame her as she stabbed down with her own blade, the steel formed of celestial intent cutting through Samantha's back.

The angel fell to her knees and screamed as Gadreel had done, white light streaking out of her mouth and eyes, until, timid and spent, she collapsed onto her front, the little girls head resting on top of Gadreel's knee.

Hannah wondered what the mother of the child vessel would say when she saw that, and she prayed that they did not judge her too harshly.

Hannah watched the tiny girls body, and Gadreel's vessels body. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and walked off, limping, to find her friends.

* * *

"Castiel!"

Dean turned to the sound before Cas did, and ran over to help Hannah as she lumbered her way towards them, the lights and screaming before not of her. Dean wouldn't pretend to mourn the angel that had possessed his brother and abused his trust, he wouldn't pretend to care for he who had let evil into humanity, but he did care about Hannah, and all she represented. So he caught her and helped her over to where the light was still swarming under Tessa's hand. The Reaper had her eyes closed and had begun to sway.

"Hannah," Cas said worriedly, picking his second in command off Dean's shoulder and setting her upright, and cautiously outstretched should she need something to hold on to. "What happened? Where's Gadreel?"

"We distracted her, but she noticed," Hannah said, nodding to the opening staircase. She looked at Cas, mournful, her blue eyes shimmering with something, something profound. Regret, or sadness or something worse. "Cas, Gadreel is dead."

Cas nodded, like he knew. Of course he'd known, there had been two bursts of light. Dean knew all too well Cas's invested interest to see the good in every one, to be hopeful beyond redemption, but Dean had thought not even he was blind enough to see that.

"Who had been guarding it?" Cas asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

Hannah's gaze darkened. "Samael, Samantha."

"Wait, she has two names?" Dean asked.

Cas looked over at Dean, surprised. "Most angels do, Dean."

Dean frowned. "What's your true name?"

Cas looked even more confused. "It is...Castiel?"

Dean shook his head. "Whatever. This is so confusing."

"My real angelic name is Hanael," Hannah offered, looking mildly sheepish at Dean's glance of surprise.

"Wait, really?"

"I know of another angel who's name is 18 syllables long," Cas said, shaking his head and smiling slightly. "She just informed everyone to call her 'Flagstaff'."

"Buddy of yours?" Dean asked, both Cas and Hannah.

Hannah nodded, smiling. "She is." Then she blinked and her mouth trembled small and sad. "_Was_."

"Was she killed in the fall?" Cas asked, tired, like he'd expected it as inevitable.

Hannah glanced over to him and shook her head. "Refused to join Nathaniel, if I remember correctly."

"Just as Muriel refused to join Malachi," Cas sighed.

Then they were interrupted, as a great whoosh of air buffeted them over and Dean nearly stumbled onto the ground. They all turned and face the wall as it was eaten up by a white light. Tessa was flung back, her eyes wide open now, arms spread as she slammed flat onto the ground.

Dean heaved her up and she stood, but shakily, relying mostly on Dean to stay standing.

She laughed and looked over at Cas and Hannah, who were taking in the portal with wide eyes. "Do you feel it now, Cas?"

Cas nodded slowly, and despite all that must have happened in Heaven, he smiled as well, Dean couldn't help find the little display more than slightly unnerving. They were like homing pigeons, the angels, the way that they flocked home. Dean knew that Cas would always end back there, however much Dean might have liked to entertain the idea that he and his brother and his best friend might go on, fighting monsters together.

"It's not actually a stairway?" Dean demanded, watching the portal as the angels that had been biding their time on the sidelines came and joined them, the group gathering, heads held in awe.

"No, Dean!" Cas said, sounding excited. Like a little boy at Christmas. "That was a metaphor!"

"Well I'll be damned," Dean commented. "Someone better call Zeppelin."

Tessa staggered and Dean caught her fully, seating her off to the side, leaning against the wall. Cas came over curiously, bending over the Reaper, too full of joy to be overly concerned. Even Tessa, who looked nearly unconscious she was so exhausted, wouldn't stop smiling.

To Dean, it was _beyond_irritating. He was glad he had only met a few angels in Heaven. He couldn't imagine staying sane in the company of things that were so damn _happy_the whole time.

"Are you alright, Tessa?" Cas asked, bending down beside her, knees folding, head hovering near Dean's waist. He extended his hand and placed it on her knee.

She nodded. "I―"

"You're not," Dean stated, tightening his jaw and watching her, worried. "You're exhausted."

"Form ranks, angels!" Cas ordered, and the angels fell into six groups. Cas lead his in first, Dean astride him. Cas held his hand around Dean's arm as they neared to the white light. He clutched at the first blade and stopped just short of wrapping his hand around the hilt.

Dean closed his eyes as they entered Heaven.

* * *

Crowley regretted making the deal with Dean Winchester as soon as he had done it. The problem was his empathy. His newly rediscovered compassion that would have been better left unfound. It was the damned Human Blood, turning him into some kind of reverse Sam Winchester, the 2008/2009 era. At least he didn't have a _human_hanging around, manipulating...unless he counted the Brothers.

Goddamn it. Dean and Sam were his Ruby.

Crowley never thought he'd sink so low that he might become a _parallel_. Ugh. _Symmetry._

He also couldn't believe he was empathising with Sam Winchester. He couldn't deal with the empathy thing to begin with, but this, this who _Vessel of Lucifer and also Lover of Dog's_alignment he had going on was freaking him out. At least now he was on the straight and narrow. Or rather, he was gleefully throwing himself off the tracks.

It'd be a good day when he didn't feel so squeamish about heading down into the dungeons and poking his head around in there. It'd be a good day when he would be able to throw Sam Winchester into the pit and not feel one speckle of remorse for it.

Unfortunately, today was not that day.

"Monique, dear," Crowley called his secretary over. She looked like she was going to say something, but then just closed her mouth and made her way over to him.

"Yes, Crowley?"

"How is everything? With the Winchester's soul?" Crowley asked.

Monique still looked a little miffed, but when she answered, she was perfectly pleasant. "As you had ordered for it to be."

"Lovely," Crowley smiled up at Monique (wait, not Monique...Michaela?). "And he's...?"

"Yes. That's all been taken care of," Michaela (no, no...Mia?) answered quickly.

"Should he be ready yet?" Crowley asked easily, trying to look nonchalant. Trying not to look like he was desperate to talk to someone who could relate to the withering humanity he stored inside himself.

Minnie shrugged. Even doing that she looked efficient. In her past life she'd been a secretary for a high ranking CEO. Needless to say, in her current position, it hadn't ended well. "It depends, soul to soul. It could take days, it could take hours."

Crowley was curious. "Maisie, tell me-" she looked less than impressed at 'Maisie' "-what are the..._factors_?"

When Mona shrugged this time, it was out of genuine ignorance instead of airiness. "No idea. No pattern, nothing to distinguish soul to soul."

"Curious things," Crowley murmured. He glanced up at his secretary. "Yes, thank you dear. You're dismissed."

Crowley closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was in front of a wide, white room. He'd had it installed when he had...a few years ago, when he'd found souls he didn't want to turn. It was a good way of securing knowledge, and a better way of playing mind games. Bobby had stayed in them until he'd grown tired of the mans insistence that he wouldn't tell Crowley anything, and he'd been sent off to his own personal hell.

Sam was in there now. His soul probably shouldn't have manifested yet.

Crowley opened the door anyway, holding a hand over his eyes, wary of how bright the youngest Winchester's soul was, proved through the demon who he'd had to give the sack to because of how..._touched_...they'd been after transporting Sam to the holding cell.

The door opened and Sam Winchester turned around, his face softer and more boyish than it had been in years, his hair a few centimetres off the length it had been when he died. He looked the age he had when he'd fallen into Hell. Crowley couldn't be bothered to figure it out, figure out whether it was because of the Cage, or if that was just how Sam saw himself.

Sam's soul had hardened early. Created itself into a frightened 26 year old.

Crowley would have laughed, were it not so sad.

"Crowley," Sam greeted, and he looked torn between relief and aversion. "Where the hell am I?"

Crowley deflected. "What do you remember?"

"Abaddon kidnapping me...and then her possessing me..." Sam frowned. "It gets a little hazy after that." Then his face paled and he looked over at Crowley, horrified. "I died, didn't I? I'm dead?"

Crowley watched Sam slowly. "Yes. Yes you're dead."

Sam looked around in panic. "Then why the hell are you here?"

"What else do you remember?" Crowley pressed.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know...panic? Yelling? And then...quiet."

Crowley didn't say anything, he just watched the youngest Winchester for the breadth of a second.

A beat. "Where's Dean?"

Crowley shrugged. "Ah yes, knew we'd get to here at some point. Off killing things, I assume."

Sam didn't smile. He closed his eyes. "I told Dean to kill me...right? She possessed me, and I told him to kill me."

"Definitely killing, then," Crowley stated, eyebrows raised.

Sam shook his head, smiling slightly, sadly, like the whole world was just drifting further and further away. "I asked him to stop."

* * *

The angels under Metatron's control were separated into different factions. There were the soldiers, who had initially been created to serve God through strength and physical prowess, the scribes who sat around tables, carefully transposing scripts like a middle ages monk and then the Archivists, who filed away history and cleaned up after everyone else, their minds chock full of what could be and what would be.

They separated within Metatron's heaven. He preferred to have the scribes nearest to him, finding their presence to be calming, simplistic. The warriors were too brash and the Archivists too pretentious, too mysterious. The Scribes did their work and they did their work well. He had always found it so satisfying, being so integral and so irreplaceable.

A soldier? A dime a dozen. A really good Scribe? Priceless.

It was just beyond here that Metatron sat, in his massive study, his typewriter, his constant companion, sitting calm and waiting for him on his desk. In it were sheets of paper, untouched for the past few days, and spread across his desk was everything he could find. Sam's semester's report, his admittance letter to Stanford, Cas's receipt at a gas station for a full tank and a bottle of water, Dean's Christmas cards, the ones he had thought were lost to the fire that killed his mother.

Metatron was erratic. Nothing was working. Nothing he wrote came true, no characters exposed themselves to hidden flaws, no drastic plot points. The world was becoming murky as he drew away from it, and in his head, he felt the control and insight that he'd had over all his underlings resolve to just the general chatter of Angel Radio. He was losing his touch, he was becoming less and less of a God by the day.

Metatron knew that if he just wrote _something_, then it would begin to clear up again. He would write something about Cas, Cas would follow through with it, his little heart beating earnestly. Then the Winchester's would follow through, predictable and side by side. Then one of their endearing on and off friends might join them on their adventures as well. Perhaps Hannah, Cas's new Rachel, or Jody, the lady Sheriff who managed to somehow find herself in position of surrogate mom.

Metatron would right something, and everything would be ok. He'd write something, and the world would set itself straight.

He clasped his hands together over the typewriter and bent forward, resting his forehead on his enclosed palms and closing his eyes. To anyone unfamiliar, he was in prayer, face appropriately sombre, lips quivering as he repeated the words to some ingrained chant. But he wasn't. Metatron inclined his head to his hands and thought about what he would write, stating the same words over and over again.

_What's next?_

The Winchester's and Castiel would eventually find themselves in Heaven. Metatron mightn't be able to see Cas or his followers, or the Winchesters, but he knew that much. He knew that they would come, that they would come for him. Cas's borrowed Grace was burning through him, the angels under his wing were dependent on him to come home, and the brothers needed retribution for Kevin, and for all else Gadreel had forced Sam to do.

Metatron untangled his fingers and began to write.

* * *

Cas had assumed that the landing area for the staircase would be relatively empty, large enough to fit a group of them in and safe enough to keep his blade up his sleeve.

The bright screaming light of the portal dwindled away and he furiously blinked at his eyes, forcing them to quickly adjust.

The comfort of being home wore quickly off as he looked desperately around him. All he could see were angels, holding files, coffees, staring at the newcomers with wide eyes and open mouths. Above their heads, in bright green letters was "ARCHIVES" painted in neat block letters.

Cas stilled as he looked around the room. He glanced back and saw that Hannah was doing the same, the angel dropping her blade into her hand. Across from Hannah, Dean was watching them with the same guarded glare that he had seemed to been wearing the past few days.

"Don't move," Castiel ordered to his silent, still troops. He could imagine they'd feel irritated by the unnecessariness of his order, but he had to make it. Perhaps if they were careful, if they were slow, they'd be able to convince these Archivists to let them through without any trouble.

And then slowly, as thought it had all been synchronised, they began to circle around the arrived Angels. Silver blades poked out beside their fingers, out of the tips of their sleeves.

"Castiel," Hannah said, and her voice was clear. She hadn't wanted to fight, didn't like to fight, but she was a soldier and it was her duty. To heaven and to Cas.

"Give an order, Cas," Rosemary stated shakily, her own blade down and in her hand.

"Kill as a last resort," Cas said slowly, looking around, clenching his jaw. Because the us or them mentality? The one that had nearly started the apocalypse? It wasn't exclusive to archangels. As much as he cared for his forces and wished them well, in the event of a fight, when the opponent was open, the killing blow would be laid out every time.

These were archivists. The ones that surrounded them. With blank faces like their minds had been tampered with (which, to Cas, was more than likely). They weren't warriors. Without a leash, his warriors would commit a massacre.

Then, Cas added, "Band out and search, leave as many angels alive as you can."

"Hannah, you and your angels stay here with me," Cas ordered. "The rest..." he looked out to the group of tensed angels, each holding a silver blade, each eyeing their brothers and sisters with a cold sort of fury. "Go find Metatron. That is your _number one_objective."

And as soon as Castiel stopped speaking, the Archivists attacked.

* * *

There was a banging on his door, and as soon as he sighed, looked up and swung the door back telekinetically, the angel behind it was practically frothing with worry.

Metatron's study had become his home base, where to go if you wanted to speak to him. Whenever he left for earth, he didn't have to make the way to the stairway, his grace still perfectly intact. Whenever he wanted something to eat, he just ordered one of his favourite scribes to whip down to New York and pick it up from that place he liked. Metatron didn't need to leave the room, didn't need to make himself a familiar face to the angels under his command.

Because he was aloof, he was mysterious, and he was worried.

"Joel," Metatron greeted, bored, sighing and resting his hands on his desk behind his typewriter. "What was so important that you needed to bang so loudly on the door?"

Joel didn't even have the capacity to _look_sympathetic. "Castiel, he's _here_."

Metatron was unperturbed. "Excellent. Anything else?"

Joel blinked, confused. "Uh...no. No, that's all."

Metatron shrugged lightly. "Fine. Now, if you'll please..."

"Castiel is here, and he is trying to take heaven back!" Joel stated again, surprised at Metatron's indifference.

Metatron looked up at Joel levelly. "I am _aware_, Joel. Now, if you'll please leave, I have work to do."

"Angels are dying," Joel said, his voice still light and unbelieving. "You'll just..._let_them?"

Metatron spread his hands. "What do you _want_me to do?"

"Give and order," Joel frowned, like it was the most obvious thing in the universe. "Call the soldiers?"

"The soldiers will find out sooner or later," Metatron informed him. "And I have no orders to give."

"So you'll just let them all die?" Joel demanded.

Metatron rested his hands softly on the keys of his typewriter. "Welcome to wartime."

"I've _been_in wartime," Joel stated angrily, glaring at Metatron. "I know what _wartime_feels like. I know what _leadership_feels like. This isn't _wartime_, Metatron! You promised that the angels would be lead _properly_now that the archangels were all dead."

"I am _God_and you will do as I say," Metatron said angrily, glaring up at his scribe. "There is a plan at work here, a plan bigger than just a few dead angels. Castiel must die, and I know how, and why, and _everything_must follow the script."

Joel looked so _angry_. He was infuriated, staring down at Metatron with hard, severe eyes. "And what if it doesn't?"

Metatron was unconcerned, he lifted his hands off the typewriter, irritated when he saw the mess of the page he'd been writing on. "It will. Believe in me, Joel."

Without a word, the scribe lifted his head, turned on his heel and stalked out the door, not looking behind him as it slammed back into place.

Metatron sighed and took of his glasses, polishing the lenses with the end of one of his sleeves. Once Castiel was dead and the peace of Heaven certain, they would flock to him, Joel for forgiveness and the rest in wonder. He just had to wait, watch as the actions spelled themselves out.

He'd written this. He knew what happened.

He would sit, they would find him, and then the fun would really start.

* * *

The Archivists had almost been embarrassingly easy to kill. They had swarmed, they had held their swords correctly, but when it came to the push and shove, they didn't know what to do. They weren't warriors, they had no idea how to combat the moves made by Castiel's forces.

Romeo and his angels had gotten through easily, breaking their wall within moments and fleeing out towards one of the three corridors branching off from the room. He was the first out, all of his angels getting out, pushing passed most of the archivists, killing two.

Romeo didn't have the same regard for Angelic life that Cas had. They were strings of celestial intent crammed together. Angels weren't irreplaceable. Angel's weren't as special as Cas made them out to be.

Nevertheless, he appreciated Cas's philosophy and saw it as much more noble, much less spineless than joining with Metatron.

The body he was wearing didn't exactly inspire fear, but his followers remained a respectful quiet as they made their way down the corridor. Up ahead, Romeo saw another open area of desks and chairs. It was in a panic, from down the hall, he could see the odd flash of silver, the odd flash off an angel blade.

"Ready?" He looked back at the angels following and smiled as they nodded. It wasn't a happy smile, it was grim and unrelenting, but at least it was there, something to strengthen them, something to give them a hold of.

There was a murmuring of nods before they broke through the door way, spreading out and holding formation.

Romeo moved forward, disarming angels, pulling out cuffs and efficiently securing them from wrist to wrist. He looked across the room and saw all the other angels following his lead, wrist to wrist and disarming, disarming and wrist to wrist. He had to take a moment when he saw one of his underlings do both at once.

The room was secure quickly. All the angels who had been preparing to fight Romeo and his section of Castiel's forces were held down, staring at their cuffs like they'd never seen anything like them before.

"Ok," Romeo said, as the last angel was held down, one of his soldiers pressing its foot to the angels head, the other one holding down it's legs as it secured its hold. "We can do this the easy way...or the easy way. Cas isn't big on..." he looked to Seraphina, who smiled slightly. "_Encouragement._So, where's Metatron?"

Romeo let his gaze sweep the room, watching as all the angels pointedly looked away.

He raised his eyebrows. "Where is he?"

* * *

The archives must have given the angels more trouble than they were worth, because when they attacked, they _attacked_.

Poorly, perhaps, with moves that were taught to Cherubim and other lesser angels. Just enough to give them the advantage in a fight with a demon, but fight they did. With reckless abandon and hollow faces.

Cas disarmed and moved throughout them steadily, holding his blade with a softness that gave away his little wish to fight. Dean was standing beside him, mouth clenched in determination, fists out, Blade positioned near uselessly in his hand. The strength that he had gotten from Cain thrummed around him like a red aura, shuddering with experience and _fear_.

Securing all the angels, that was supposed to be the hard part.

Hannah and her angels stood beside Castiel as he positioned the surviving Archivists away from the bodies that had started to pile up as Rosemary, Uriah, Beatrice and Romeo had taken off with their teams. They find Metatron, they kill Metatron, they take back Heaven.

it wasn't an overly complicated plan, simplistic enough to change if things got heated. Complicated enough that they had one job to stick to, a series of orders to _never_waver from.

All of the angels who had tried to stop him looked up at Cas with unbridled resentment.

Hannah stood close by his shoulder. "Can I talk to you, please?"

Cas looked around at her, surprised, before letting her lead him off to the doorway of one of the three passages. "What's wrong?"

"The angels," Hannah stated firmly. "Where are the soldiers? Surely Metatron doesn't think that _this_could stop us?"

"Maybe he underestimates us," Cas said, already knowing that he was sounding foolish.

"He doesn't," Hannah shook her head. "He _wouldn't_. And we can't afford to think that he does. Castiel, I'm worried. I think that this is a trap."

"I agree with you," Cas assured her. "But we can't back out now. If we leave, then we never come back. Do you understand that?"

Hannah nodded, casting her eyes downward, clenching her jaw and letting her hair fall across her face.

"Hannah," Cas said, not unkindly. "We have angels relying on us. Do you have anything else you would like to say?"

"Just that..." Hannah looked over at them. "They were once my friends. But now they don't look like themselves."

"Have you heard of..." Cas tried not to make a soured face over her name. "Naomi?"

Hannah looked suddenly cautious. "Heard of her, but only rumours. They say that you go to her and you forget things. They say that you go to her, and you don't come back the same."

"They're right," Cas looked down at the angels who were seated in front of the desks, distant and unsmiling. "She did. She's dead now, but I wonder how many angels there really were working on us. How many controlling us."

"Metatron _ruined_them?" Hannah asked, voice rising to an angry whisper. "He..._reprogrammed_the angels?"

Cas ensured that his face stayed calm, unfeeling. "I don't know, but that seems like the most likely."

"Cas―"

"We have things to do," Cas said, this time almost irritated. "Will you be able to focus?"

Hannah nodded slowly, watching Cas with adamantly blank eyes.

"Cas, over here," Dean called, and Cas walked over. Dean was leaning over a female angel, foot propped up on one of the chairs that he had righted, having been knocked over in the tussle. He leant the First Blade on his knee and the angel was watching it with barely concealed exhaustion.

"What's your name?" Cas asked, sparing a worried look Dean's way.

"Patience," the Angel responded easily.

"See?" Dean offered. "She's talking."

"She's _sacrificing_herself, Dean!" Cas turned, angry, to where Dean had his eyebrows raised, unbelieving. "She wants us to focus on her, instead of them."

"Well," Dean kicked off the chair and crossed his arms. "We need to talk to someone, right?"

"As much as I hate it, Dean's right, Cas," Hannah said, frowning slightly at the angel in front of them. Her angels followed her obediently, branching out behind her in a V shape, guarding her flank, eyeing the restrained angels vehemently. "We have to ask one of them. We just..." she looked uncomfortable, running a hand up her arm. "We don't _hurt_her. Ok?"

Dean smiled. "Sure. Sounds fun. I'll come back in...two days? That's how long it took to change Gadreel's mind, right?"

"A few hours, actually," Sofiel offered from behind Hannah.

Hannah sent her a silencing look, and Dean's frustration leeched off him, swirling in the air, tangible and poisonous.

Cas, however, was unmoved. "I'm not hurting her, Dean. I do that, I'm no better than him."

Dean's fist tensed around the First Blade, and beneath his shirt, Cas saw a shift of bright red, but he didn't say anything.

Cas knelt down beside her. "Patience, before more angels die, where is Metatron?"

She watched him blankly. "I'll never tell you."

Dean sighed and turned away. "Here we go."

* * *

"Where _am_I, Crowley?" Sam demanded. "I'm in Hell, aren't I?"

Crowley shifted slightly. "Not exactly."

"Then why are _you_here?" Sam pressed again, becoming more and more agitated. "What happened? I thought...I thought that the trials, that they _cleansed_me―"

"You're not _in Hell_," Crowley growled. "Why doesn't anyone listen to me? Honestly!"

"Well, I'm not in Heaven," Sam listed sarcastically, off his fingers. "Heaven's _locked_. And I'm not with Kevin and the other souls, so that's that out as well. Where else could I be."

A beat in which Crowley redirected his gaze to the floor. "Ok. You're in Hell."

Sam swore, loudly. "I _knew_it! Why am I in Hell?"

"Trust me," Crowley said slowly. "You don't want to know."

* * *

After ten minutes, Patience relented. Dean was surprised, only ten minutes, and she was sitting on the floor across from Cas, pouring her heart out and sobbing. She told him all about how she doesn't recognise herself anymore, doesn't recognise Heaven. That she misses tending over souls and that she misses the way things used to be. That at least under Raphael and Michael there was some _semblance_of continuing their initial Mission, but now nothing. No humans are to be saved. Angelic politics were being pushed into overdrive.

It was _damaging._

"So, why aren't we going yet?" Dean asked, rubbing a hand through his hair. He stood right beside Cas, the angel watching his sister cry as Hannah consoled her.

"Angels aren't supposed to be able to cry," Cas murmured.

"Another trap, then?" Dean guessed.

Cas shook his head. "No, if Metatron wanted to trap us, he'd make it more personal."

Dean didn't see what was more personal than a weeping angel, crying for all the things that Cas believed too, but at least he'd implanted the thought into the angels mind. Perhaps he'd pick it up and run with it. Perhaps he'd change his plans, or something.

"Dean, you will stay here," Cas stated, his voice low and grave.

Dean jerked in confusion, turning to the angel, stunned. "Ex_cuse_me? Stay? After all that douche has done? No, no _way,_man! I need to be there!"

"You want to discuss bringing your brother back with Metatron, because you don't think we'll succeed," Cas said, turning to Dean, face closed, eyes fathomless. Dean sucked in an breath of air. Each word was like a stab.

How had he known? "How'd―"

"I know you Dean," Cas said simply. "Sam was dead. Metatron is powerful. This is a trap. It doesn't take a genius to guess what you'd do next."

Dean felt his face crack. "I need him back, Cas. Oh God, I _miss_him."

"I know, Dean."

"You know, every night, when he was little, he's whisper the same goddamn words into his pillow," Dean said, staring at Cas, trying to see him _get_it. Understand why he couldn't just leave Sam rotting with Crowley, couldn't _stand_to remember what it was like to give his brother a Hunters burial. "_It's not forever._ I brought him back into this, Cas. I gotta get him out."

"You come with me, we take Metatron, we win," Cas said, in the same methodical pattern that he'd been addressing with during the whole conversation. "I regain my grace, _I_bring Sam back." It was only now that Cas looked mournful. "He is my friend as well. But are you sure he _wants_to come back?"

"Someone tries to kill themselves, you talk them off the edge," Dean stated. "Someone's dying, you try to save them. Someone mucks up, you give them a second chance. Someone deserves to live, you do everything you can."

"We will get Sam back," Cas assured him, placing his hand consolingly on his friends arm. "But we'll save the world first."

* * *

Dean, Cas and Hannah and her angels pushed through the corridors, working out where Metatron was supposed to be. Patience had given clear directions, but all the corridors were eerily similar, and it was a maze of closed doors and paintings depicting angels.

They rushed out into another open area, this time the desks set up more methodically, separated by dividers and as small as possible. The angels behind the desks stood suddenly seeing Cas, Dean and all the other angels bursting out into their workplace.

"Dean," Cas said lowly. "Hannah, the door."

The two followed his command and saw a pair of elaborate wooden doors, shut tight, a brass doorhandle beckoning to them.

"Go," Hannah said shortly, turning back to her team and ensuring they were in attack formation. "We'll hold them off."

"We have to get to the other side," Cas said, his angel blade falling from his sleeve to his hand.

"I know," Hannah replied, and her voice was tight. "Push through, then guard from the other side?"

"Risky," Dean summarised, just as Cas shook his head, stating, "Impossible."

Hannah clenched, her whole body preparing for a fight. "We have to _try_."

"No killing unless absolutely necessary," Cas ordered warningly. But it was worthless now, that order. Because they needed to get to Metatron, and these angels weren't going to stop with a disarming manoeuvre.

"Scribes," Dean read off the wall. He looked to Cas. "Good or bad?"

"Bad," Cas said, thinking of all the training that scribes got, all the things they learnt alongside soldiers. No soldiers yet though, this was still a trap, but Scribes...Cas turned fearfully to Hannah and the angels gathered behind them. They'd have their work cut out for them.

"Ready?" Hannah asked, as the angels across from them tactically lay themselves out in a defensive formation.

Cas nodded, once, sharply, and they drove through.

* * *

Metatron heard the shouts and bangs behind his door and pulled out the manuscript. He placed on his glasses and studied the paper carefully.

_A great cacophony of noise sounded like the war trumpets of Rome from behind God's doors. God watched and he would sit patiently, for the righteous man, the leader of the rebellion and the Boy King._

The door flew open and Cas and Dean stalked in, Dean clutching something grotesque and dark, Cas with blood along his lip and below his hairline.

_The Three walked in like minions of Hell, so blinded by their naivety that they closed the door, they turned to him, and started to laugh._

Metatron studied them carefully. Dean was holding the First Blade of Cain, which, while unexpected, wasn't _not_supported by the text. And there was Cas, bloodied and murderer. Neither of them were laughing.

Metatron felt his breathing hitch. Where was Sam?

"Metatron," Cas greeted coldly, eyes a little unfocused, the shock to the head obviously more prevalent than it looked.

"Castiel and Dean Winchester," Metatron stated gloatingly. "Just as I had written you."

"Can it, Metatron," Dean snarled. "We want you dead or gone from Heaven, and we want it_now_."

"Always with the B-Grade 80's movie threat," Metatron sighed, turning about the room and moving in front of his desk. "It's all become so _expected_, hasn't it?"

Dean moved forward and with a flick of his wrist, Metatron threw him across the room and into the wall.

"Where's the Crassus of this Triumvirate?" Metatron asked, glancing between the two. At their blank look he rolled his eyes. "_Sam_."

"Don't―"

"Boring," Metatron sighed, pushing his hand out to Dean and slamming him again in the wall.

"Dead," Castiel stated. "Not part of your plan?"

"_Everything_is part of my plan," Metatron bit savagely. "And _all_of this was a trap."

"We know, asshole," Cas glared. "Not your most flawless work."

Cas reached out with his blade and stabbed up at Metatron. Metatron ducked back and felt the tip of the blade cut through the uppermost layer of his skin. He hissed back and pulled out his own blade, the familiar pang of celestial energy falling smoothly into his hand.

Metatron saw the manuscript where he left it, and cursed himself.

_The three merge onto God and God is terrified, for surely the Boy King, so near and so strong will destroy Him. Utter bravery overcame God and He captured the youngest of the Cursed Brothers, holding him hostage. The image of God holding his brother forced the Righteous man to fall to his knees in admittance. Castiel was distraught, desperate. Together the Rebel's Leader and God clashed, and Castiel fell heavily to the ground, dead._

Dean was already groaning to his feet, the extra strength from the blade propelling him to move. Metatron ducked back again from Cas's blade before cutting methodically out with his, his wrist moving smoothly and strongly.

He felt the urge to just slip away, to melt into earth as he had once done. But no one would take him in now, no one would care for him, repay his kindness of extended life with literature and movies. And it made him sick, made him cold, the idea of waiting again, trapped on earth, while Heaven was controlled by Castiel, while he was hunted down.

Metatron wouldn't give in. Not now. Not after everything.

He felt Dean hold around his neck, around his left arm. He felt Dean push him toward Cas, saw the angel, rear back his blade, and closed his eyes as the angel blade pushed into his chest.

His eyes were forced open, every cell, every _atom_of his body screaming white, bright light. The silver pressed deeper inside his chest, a thrum of intent and desire and _death_all summarised in a small silver blade. His eyes were forced open and his mouth wrenched open for a scream as his grace exploded within him.

Metatron's body fell to the ground.

* * *

_Name for Chapter 3: **Hello Resurrection, My Old Friend **_

_Ding dong bitches. So Metty's dead and things can start picking up. And Gadreel's dead as well...way radical._

_Any-old-who, apologies for not having ANY popculture references. I just couldn't find the time, ya know? When Sam comes back (this isn't a spoiler. You're an idiot.) there'll be more of that._

_And brotherly touching. And hugging. Heck yeah I'm excited now._

_As a number one fan of Sam's, these past two chapters have been really difficult to write. I feel like with Sam I could probably write 10,000 words on how perfect he is. With Dean, I'm sorta in more murky waters._

_I love Dean, but ugh, Sam man...I just...He just wanted another life? I'm sorry I'm getting emotional._


	3. The Sounds of Silence

_Hey guys,_

_So after this chapter, I'll be entering more of the typical Monster-of-the-week storyline that got us so invested into the show to start with. So, to recap:_

_(THE ROAD SO FAR)_

_-Abaddon was killed while using Sam as a meatsuit by Dean at the end of 'Colette'_

_-Sam asked Dean to stop killing, Dean didn't exactly comply, because..._

_-Cas and he killed Metatron! So now that creepy uncle's dead and the plot can progress amirite._

_-Dean allowed Crowley to take Sam's soul into safekeeping (mainly because the souls that were being held out from heaven were making Limbo terrifying and hellish) and stuff._

_-Hannah is Cas's second in command. She and he noticed that the majority of angels under Metatron's rule seemed to have been altered in a way similar to what Naomi did to Cas._

_(NOW)_

* * *

"I turned to look but it was gone

I can't put my finger on it now

the child is grown

the dream is gone

I have become

comfortably numb."

-_Comfortably Numb_, Pink Floyd

* * *

"_Nine years_!"

Dean winced as Missouri Moseley's voice heralded her opening the door. The day, even that early in the morning, was still and clam, a heavy contrast to Missouri's vehemence. Lawrence's usual windy weather had given off and the scent of spring and flowers hovered in the air, despite Winter edging its way around the corner. It was the sort of weather people walked home in, the sort of weather people smiled in.

The psychic threw the door open, bandana holding back her bushy black hair, watching Dean angrily, hands on her hips _fuming_, short stature bristling as she took Dean in_._

"Good to see you too," Dean said, smiling easily.

Missouri snorted, letting her glare grow stronger. "I can see you haven't changed since the last time we spoke."

Dean glanced into the hallway behind her, looking into the familiar inside of her house. Comfortable and homely, a mirror and family pictures, it tugged Dean's memories of the last time that they were here. Bobby's house had been like this, obviously lived in. But with Missouri's house, it was like a time capsule for the memories that had been his life_before..._before _everything._ "Can I come in?"

"No you may _not_," Missouri stated bitingly. Her arms switching from being positioned on her hips to crossed tightly over her chest. "Where's―"

She cut herself off, closing her eyes and pressing her lips together. When she looked up at Dean, her eyes were full of pity, and the severe tightness of her crossed arms began to loosen, from anger to self-comfort. "Oh, Dean, honey. I'm sorry."

Pity. Great. Dean fought to smile again, trying to pull back the 26 year old self he'd managed to so easily manifest a few moments before. Nearly a decade ago. Christ. But he couldn't. Whoever that happy little boy had been, he'd died. At some point. When Dean had sold his soul, when Sam had died, when the angels admitted their eternal interference. Name your poison.

Or maybe that smiling youth had been tortured out of him, pulling screaming from his bones as he thrashed in the pit. Worse, maybe he died despairing as Dean did what he swore to forget.

Dean gave up trying to smile and leant against the doorway, fighting himself, wanting to run away as fast as he could.

"Do you wanna come inside?" Missouri invited unsurely.

Dean managed to crack a smile at that. "What, you only let sad people in now? Some weird cult thing you joined?"

Missouri tutted disapprovingly but moved out of the way. "Respect, young man."

Dean moved passed her and tried not to gaze around in wonder as he moved through the house that he and Sam had visited way too long ago. He remembered that case. He doubted he'd ever forget it. Their old house, their mom, that poltergeist, calling his Dad, crying on the phone...

Dean cleared his throat and tried to empty his head. He knew Missouri could read him, but he didn't want to know how well.

"Alright―"

"Tea?" Missouri interrupted, looking pointedly to her couch. "Sit down. We have a lot of catching up to do."

"Uh―"

"_Tea_?"

"Yeah, thanks," Dean replied, a little shakily, moving to seat himself on the old couch that looked exactly the same as it had.

Dean blinked and shook himself out of his nostalgia. New era, new him. If he really thought about it, the picture over the television was different, and Missouri had greying hairs mopped into her curls. The cars along the street were newer and shinier, and the house was looking a little worse for wear in places he was sure had been perfectly fine a decade ago.

Oh god, this was going to hurt. He knew he shouldn't have come back. He could have gone to the psychic that Carlos recommended to him when he called around, or even just summoned Cas to see if he could help, but...he'd _wanted_Missouri. He wanted something connected to a memory of Sam and him that wasn't clouded with grief, and he didn't want something impersonal. He wanted Sammy, little brother, fresh from college, _smiling_.

He knew he couldn't have all that, but he just wanted to go _back_.

Missouri bustled out of the kitchen, hands cupped around two steaming cups of tea.

"Don't suppose you have anything stronger?" Dean asked, pulling out that grin again.

Missouri raised her eyebrow. "Don't suppose you know what _time_it is, boy?"

"10 ish?" Dean guessed.

Missouri snorted, but she didn't correct him. "Alright, how you been, Dean?"

"Um―"

"It's been 9 years," Missouri reminded him, seating herself opposite him, hands cupping around her drink. "Humour me."

"Uh, pretty crap, actually."

"Oh, yeah, I can imagine," Missouri nodded. Then she titled her head. "Well, I can't, but I know it can't have been an easy road for you boys. Sammy carryin' around what he was, Daddy elusive as ever." Her gaze was hawkish on him as he adamantly did _not_respond to her words. "How is the old man?"

Dean coughed slightly. "Dead." He took a sip of tea. It was too hot, but he swallowed a mouthful of the scalding liquid anyway.

Missouri flattened her eyebrows into remorse. "Comes to us all, I guess. How'd he die?"

"Sold his soul," Dean stated cleanly. No point in lying, she'd be able to tell in an instant, but no point in pretending to enjoy it.

Missouri sucked in her breath. "That idiot. What he sell it for?"

"My life," Dean said, still purposefully aloof.

Missouri nodded, gaze lost amongst the magazines spread across the table between them. "He did love you boys. Can't say I'm surprised that that was why he did it. What happened then?"

Dean shrugged evasively.

"_Nine_ years," Missouri reminded him, eyebrows arching again. "Nine years and not a phone call, a letter, an _email,_nothing. Nothing to let me know you were alive―"

"I get it," Dean interrupted her. His voice was too hard, so he softened it. "I do. I'm sorry. We've just been...busy."

"It's ok," Missouri said, and she looked mournful. "I just worry about you, Dean."

"I'm fine," Dean said, his voice edging up to be top harsh again.

"You're not," Missouri stated calmly. "You got some evil mark on your arm and some black blade in your car, your brothers dead..." she trailed off, hands digging into her thighs as she rested her hands onto her lap. She let the silence extend, until finally, "It's been a hard life."

"I sold my soul," Dean blurted out, before he could stop himself.

Missouri smiled sadly. "I can tell. Did you sell it for Sam? For him to come back to life? Like your Daddy for you?"

Dean nodded, taking a deep mouthful of the tea that was almost cool enough to safely consume.

"How many years you got left?" Missouri asked softly.

Dean shook his head. "I got one."

"One year left?"

Dean shook his head. "No, my contract ended five, six years ago. I got one to _begin_with."

A beat. "Are you lying to me?"

Dean smiled, but there was no humour in his smile, not happiness. "Sister, I wish I was."

Missouri watched him, scrutinizing his every move. "Why aren't you burning five floors under?"

"Got pulled out."

"By who?"

"Angels."

"Excuse me?"

Dean swallowed. "Angels."

"Yeah, that's what I thought you said," Missouri said slowly. She shook her head, bemused. "Tell me everything."

* * *

"And that's when..." Missouri winced and gestured to Dean's arm.

"Yeah," Dean said, putting a hand self-consciously over the mark and looking pointedly away.

Missouri made a disapproving noise and placed down her empty mug of tea. "I swear, you Winchesters, you seem to make a damn mess of yourselves. Now, finally, why are you here?"

Dean smirked. "Not gonna ask me to continue my life story?"

Missouri smiled a little. "No, I can guess the rest. Cain and Abel, Cain and Colette. Abaddon. Am I close?"

"Pretty much," Dean affirmed, placing down his long finished tea. He took a steadying breath. "I need your help. It's...it's the mark."

"Is it getting stronger?" Missouri frowned.

Dean half nodded. "It was sorta fading, but I picked it up again the other day..."

"And it's starting to take over again," Missouri sighed. "Well, let me see it."

Dean extended his arm and Missouri held it in front of her eyes. She placed her fingers over it, arms both suspended over the coffee table.

Missouri's forehead clenched, eyebrows crinkling, stress pushing wrinkles into her face.

"Somethin' wrong?" Dean guessed.

Missouri peeked up at him, giving her best disparaging look. "You got the devils mark on your arm, and you're asking me if something's wrong?"

"It's not the―"

"Hush!"

Dean obeyed and promptly closed his mouth.

Missouri stayed like that for a while, eyes closed, mouth pinched shut, forehead clenched with some sort of pain, hand pressed over the Mark of Cain.

Dean watched her, and now that he could study her openly, he could see that, apart from the few grey hairs in her head, she didn't look that much different. Perhaps she just aged impeccably well, or it was something to do with her psychic stuff, but if he could squint his eyes and wipe his mind, it _was_ nine years ago. He was worried about his Dad, Sam was worried about him, he was worried about Sam. All they had was each other and the world had seemed _massive_.

"_I just want us to be a family again._"

Dean followed Missouri's lead and closed his eyes.

"Dean," Missouri said, a few moments later. "You want the good news or bad news?"

"There's good news?" Dean asked, opening his eyes, pulling his arm away as Missouri sat back into her chair.

Missouri managed to smile. "I know. Ain't it a miracle?" Missouri sighed and smoothed her hands over her front. "Good news is, I can dampen the effect that the mark has on you."

"What's the bad news?" Dean asked.

"It'll last two, three months," Missouri said. And then she looked at him apologetically. "And when it comes back, it'll be as thought it had never been gone."

"So all the ground it would have made if it wasn't dormant will come and kick me in the ass," Dean said, tasting something bitter in the back of his throat. He sighed and ran his hand over his face. "Is there any way to get rid of it? Forever?"

Missouri shook her head. "Pass it on, that's the only way. Find some goodness in something and hand it to them. They have to be worthy to accept the mark, like you, like Cain."

"Right," Dean muttered. "Thanks, Missouri."

"Ok," Missouri said, and stood. "Lunch, and then we'll start."

"Pie?"

"If I'd known you were coming―"

"You _did_know I was coming!"

"Why? Because I'm psychic? I'm sorry honey, but not even _I_could have foreseen this."

* * *

They sat opposite each other, the ground decorated with white chalk in a zigzagging star.

Missouri had let her hair out of the bandana and had a topaz and tigers eye medallion tied carefully around her neck. She had her eyes closed, one hand extended over each of the candles she'd lit for the ceremony. One tallow and one wax, one lit in the north of the house, one in the south.

Both of them were as red as blood. Dean shifted uncomfortably as she started to chant.

"_O, Frater, sorores"_she crooned. "_O, Spiriti_."

_Oh Brother, sister, oh spirits._

"_Quid virum ferte,_" Carry this man. "_Et_, _Signum, dormite!_" And, Mark, sleep! "_Expergiscere nolo sine me vox_!" Do not wake without my voice!

Dean closed his eyes as his mark began to burn, pushing poison and heat into his blood stream. He bit back a scream and clenched his jaw solid as the spell began to take effect.

But then he felt it, softness, trickling through his veins after the poison like soothing fingers, ice on a burn. He felt his anger melt away, his drive, the _push_for death and destruction delving to the back of his mind.

He could still feel it, feel it tinkering away at the back of his mind, but it was _gone_, asleep, dormant.

Dean opened his eyes and let out a shaky breath of relief. He looked across at Missouri and she smiled.

"Tea?"

* * *

"What's the time?" Missouri asked idly, looking around the room to her large grandfather clock. She widened her eyes in surprise. "Oh my, it's nearly night time. Where are you staying?"

"3 hours away," Dean answered evasively.

"You can't drive at this late time," Missouri stressed.

"I'll be fine," Dean said, finding it comforting for someone to take such a vested interest in his wellbeing. It was a nice change, God, it was just _nice_. The last time someone had mother hen'd him had been Sam―

Missouri sighed and stood as he did, at exactly the same time. "Alright then, I can see you've made up your mind."

"Thanks, Missouri," Dean said, laced with sincerity. Because, God, there it was, lost at the back of his thoughts. The blade was in his car, but he couldn't feel the usual incessant tug that he'd come to associate with it

"You're very welcome, Dean," she smiled again, and Dean was beginning to think that perhaps she was right. Nine years was a very long time.

"I'm sorry, by the way," he added, and Missouri raised her eyebrows in question. "For the near decade thing."

Missouri tutted and lead him to the front door. "Well, that apology was certainly long in coming."

"Yeah," Dean rubbed his hand on the back of his neck, waiting for Missouri to open the door. He headed passed her and into the sinking sunlight, passing through the doorway, taking a deep breath.

"Hey, Dean," Missouri said, and he turned to see her watching him, that smile still dotting her lips. "You get Sam back, and then you bring him here, kay?"

Dean nearly opened his mouth to speak, but rammed it shut, nodding, not trusting himself.

"That boy," Missouri shook her head. "I mean, I was _nice_to him. I was rude to you."

"You're still rude to me," Dean reminded her.

Missouri scowled, but he could see it was good natured. "Yep, not an inch of change from you over ten years. Now, you keep in touch, you hear?"

"On it," Dean promised.

He headed out to the impala, but he didn't miss the "I mean it this time!" she directed to his turned back.

* * *

"Caretaker of Heaven?" Cas demanded, glancing to Hannah, who winced as he turned his incredulity on her. "Are you all _serious_?"

Hannah bit her lip. "I'm sorry, but it's unanimous."

The two were in Metatron's study, ripped barren of all its previous occupants belongings. Metatron had left a lot in his death, left a stain of wings on the carpet and millennia of secrets in his books and tied parcels of paper. Cas had had his angels working through it, directed by Seraphina, who had been a scribe before she'd joined Cas's forces, and Romeo, who was soft on Seraphina, the two had found each other first after the fall.

Cas sat in there now, just so people would know where to find him if they needed order, if they needed something to do. He'd spoken so often of the same thing that it was doing his head in.

Cas sighed and ran his hand through his hair. It had been a day, a day on earth terms and infinity within a second in heaven. Everything was happening slowly, and Cas was already tired of the politics. He didn't _want_to be the leader, the appointed Caretaker. He just wanted to be an angel, as tired as he was of saying it, it was _true_.

Hannah cleared her throat. "On a more positive note, we can replenish your grace whenever you want."

"It's prepared?" Cas asked, standing. Then he looked down. "Have they...is there any progress on the, uh, other thing?"

"Naomi's Influence?" Hannah replied unsurely, using the nickname it'd been given. "Not yet. It seems that touching the angel tablet was the only way to free someone from it. But so far, it seems that wherever Metatron hid the thing, it's hidden well."

"Balthazar had collected weapons of mass destruction," Cas mused to himself, more than to Hannah. "Maybe there'd be something in that?"

"Do you know where it is?" Hannah asked.

Cas shook his head, distracted. "He never told me. Can't say I blame him, I was sort of..." he trailed off and clinched his mouth to the side. Hannah gave an uncomfortable cough and Cas jerked himself out of his stupor.

"Sorry. Where was it?"

"It was with Metatron's scrolls," Hannah explained, leading him to the door and opening it for him, exposing the hustle of the corridor outside his room, where angels had died and Hannah and Cas's angels under her command had defended Metatron's door as Cas and Dean had ended the temporary God. "A spell."

"What does it need?" Cas asked.

Hannah shrugged daintily. "Nothing much. Nothing we can't get immediately."

Cas had missed this, thousands of angels with their wings, the world to be searched within moments. He'd found it so painfully slow to be a human, to walk around instead of fly, to drive instead of instantly teleport. It gave him more a feel for humanity, gave him more of an understanding of those left under their care, but he didn't have to like it.

"Ok," he said, and took a deep breath. "Ok."

Hannah smiled and led him off to the rooms, not dissimilar to the one Naomi had used on him to try and get him to kill Dean and Sam.

Cas hesitated by the doorway, taking in the bright white, the softly talking angels surrounding the ingredients for the spells, Hannah's smile.

He swallowed and tried not to materialise away, not that he could anyway. Not unless he took another step, and then another, and then settled into the chair. Not unless he moved into that room and revisited those terrors..._No._

"Cas?" Hannah asked, obtuse, frowning at his stilled figure. "Everything ok?"

_No_. "Fine, just―"

Hannah's eyes widened as she understood. It wasn't instant, it wasn't perfect, but it was there nevertheless. _Empathy._God given, undeniable _empathy_.

Cas could only watch in surprise as she came to his elbow to help him into the room.

"It's ok," she said softly, easily, her face twitching only in the slightest. None of the other angels waiting around to help would notice anything avidly wrong with the picture. None would be able to see the obvious. "I'll be here."

Cas's heart warmed as she led him carefully to the chair, seating him down and waiting by his side patiently. Voices sounded behind him but Cas didn't react, focusing on Hannah, her warmth, her firm grip on his arm. Not overpowering, but secure. _I'm here, I've got you. This is going to be ok._

Cas couldn't remember a time like this, a time when an angel, one of his sisters, had comforted him like this, _mothered_him like this. Cas sunk carefully back into the leather of the seat and stared unseeingly towards the ceiling.

It was nice, to have friends. Nice to have friends in Hannah. She was a good angel.

Her kindness made him ache for something he hadn't really realised he'd missed. Made him ache for Rachel and Anna, for Balthazar and Gabriel and Muriel. For Joshua who no one had seen since the fall. For all those angels who so easily could have bent their power, to dominate, to kill, but didn't.

Cas reflected that perhaps the exception to that rule was Anna, but as he looked around the room, his eyes widened, his breathing slowed.

Cas wondered, then, how long _Anna_had spent getting her mind wiped, until they'd seen that she was fit to go.

And that, all of that, was on Cas. For giving her back to them. For giving in.

"Cas?" Hannah's voice broke him from the events of a few years ago and into the now. Quite appropriately, he thought. Cas blinked up at her and she smiled. "This is gonna hurt, but we're doing it as fast as we can. Are you alright?"

Cas nodded, settled back, rigidly set his jaw, and prepared for his new grace.

* * *

The Bunker shuttered empty as Dean opened up the door. It was sort of surreal, going through life without his severely increased strength, like all that time he'd been building up had been something, and this was the proof. No matter how much he'd tried to ignore it, no matter how much he would have liked to believe either way.

Dean flicked the lights on and moved slowly down the stairs, feet thudding against the floor in a slow, rhythmic waltz. Here they'd been, collecting their things responding to that kids fiancée's murder in Ohio. Here they'd been, terse nods their main mode of communication, gazes fixed pointedly away from each other, making sure that the other one wasn't looking when they did stop, when they did watch.

Dean's hand clenched on the rail and his fingers itched firmly on the strap of his duffel bag. Oh god, he knew he shouldn't have come back.

Everything was left as though they were going to come back, Sam's jacket spread easily across the back of one of the chairs in the library, a dirty coffee mug placed down as his brother had rushed to get ready. Books were fixed, spread out, across the top.

Dean idly went over, dumping his bag on the ground, near where the stairs finished up to the library. He walked forward slowly. Dean looked down and saw the books that Sam had had open. Demonic law, or, more specifically, the Knights of Hell.

Dean smiled, thin lipped, eyes glazed.

He ducked his head and felt his hand ball into a fist.

With a scream, he wrenched the table over, the books going flying through the air. Some part of his brain triggered that this is what he'd done when Kevin died, but Dean didn't care, not anymore. Because as much as that had hurt, this hurt more. Sure, maybe it was_selfish_to want his brother back, _selfish_to have kept him safe with Crowley, but really...

Dean's fingers throbbed, but he threw the chair hard against the wall anyway, it slamming into the books and crashing to the floor.

Dean let out a moan as he slammed his fist into the side of the table, feeling his anger surge within him, feeling all that _angst_and _insecurity_fly and fight and flee and then _I want my brother back_crashing inside him, howling and howling, like it would never stop, like he would never stop, the crashing of waves and blood and blood and blood―

Dean took a deep, deep, steadying breath. He stilled. He let his hands drop, let his fingers uncurl. Let himself slide slowly to the floor, taking in all the destruction.

He sat like that for a while, just watching, just seeing. Waiting.

He nodded to himself, stood, and bent to start fixing the table.

_Sam'll be home soon,_he thought idly, righting the chairs, frowning at the crack in the leg._Can't have him worry..._

Dean paused, blinked, but he didn't start moving again. Because what if he _didn't_come back and there was _always_something and what if _Crowley―_

Dean stood like that for a long time, hands clasped around the broken chair, staring at the broken leg, utterly numb.

* * *

Cas came back in blinks. He drifted awake, in a slow sort of crawl. No shocks or falling, just drifting along the world like he had all the time, now and then and forever.

"Hey, Cas," Hannah said, and he recognised her. He anchored onto where he had heard her call from and pulled himself into wakefulness. His eyes were still blurry as that broke apart, lashes dusting each other as he blinked the sleepiness out.

"'Annah," he managed. Then he swallowed and forced himself more aware. "Did everything―"

Hannah was beaming. "Everything went perfectly."

Cas settled back into the leather of the chair, tilting his head to get a better look of the room. Runes were painted on the walls, fading from bright and white to more simplistic paint. The room was devoid of the angels who'd been murmuring about before he'd closed his eyes and lost himself.

He turned to Hannah curiously, who was watching him with a small, ecstatic smile. "Where―"

"I sent them out," Hannah said. "Didn't want you to...freak out."

"Freak out?" Cas asked, sitting up, wincing.

Hannah nodded. "You were asleep and..." she paused and looked worried. "I'm not sure, but isn't disorientation a common attribute to coming out of a stupor?"

Cas couldn't help the smile that dawned across his lips. "It is. Well done, Hannah."

Hannah's face lit up, and she beamed.

"So it's―"

"All there," Hannah assured him. "Grace, wings, everything."

Cas was silent for a moment. "Any news on the reversal of Metatron's spell?"

Hannah shook her head. "We've opened up a hundred other staircases while you were asleep, and reapers have been sent out to collect souls, but other than that..."

"We're on our own," Cas finished grimly. With a sigh he heaved himself upright, feeling something icy and strange slither down his spine as he recognised the new grace shift inside of him.

"What do we do now?" Hannah asked, hovering a foot away, hands flexed, as if preparing to hold him if he swayed.

"Keep looking," Cas ordered. "I have a favour to give."

"Sam?" Hannah guessed, and Cas nodded, looking at her warily. He wondered if she'd try to stop him, try to take the reins, try to remind him of the nature of life and death, and the flimsiness of mortality.

But she just frowned determinedly and lifted her chin. "Do you need me to help?"

Cas watched her for the breadth of a second, and this time when the smile ordered at the sides of his mouth, he captured it, broadcasted it, grinning like he hadn't since he was human. "Thank you, very much, Hannah. But this is something that I can do alone."

Hannah was silent for a moment. "It's over, isn't it?"

"Nearly," Cas agreed.

"I mean, _over_," Hannah stressed, looking down. "All that humanity, and now...we're just_angels_again."

Cas wanted to move to comfort her, wanted to assure her that it was _good_, that being an angel was _good_. But he couldn't, not with what she knew, not with what she felt. It said something, about his sister, that she should still want to live on earth, still want to feel the things she'd felt, after witnessing death and destruction and the worst that everything had to offer.

It said something about _all_of them.

Hannah darted forward, and before she could lose her nerve, kissed him on the cheek. A farewell, soft as a hummingbird, warm and homely as fresh bread.

And so it was that Cas smiled as he sat up, and thanked her as he got to his feet.

* * *

"Finished?" Dean asked, looking across as Cas placed the last of the ingredients in a bowl to summon Crowley.

Cas nodded, standing up and dusting his hands on the side of his trench coat. The dungeon, as it was so lovingly put, echoed around them in mock sincerity, the devils trap etched simply in the middle of the ground. Trapping Crowley might not put him in the best of moods, but it was better than nothing. At least with this they had some sort of leverage over him. "Are you ready, Dean?"

Ready for what? For Crowley to come, smirking, holding Sam's soul ransom, his earlier promise just another cross next to Dean's name? Or ready for his brother to come back, safe and sound and _not_covered in blood, _not_begging his brother to kill him?

_Neither_, Dean wanted to say. _And both_.

"Sure," Dean grunted, pulling his matches out of the back of his jeans. "Let's do this."

"Two feet first always has been the Winchester way," Cas muttered, casting Dean a worried glance.

Dean sighed, ignored the angel and ran a hand through his hair. "Ok," he said, and pulled out a match. "Ready?"

Cas nodded affirmation and Dean let the match fall into the bowl, where it hit the ingredients and burnt acrid as sparks leapt up and over the sides.

There was a drawn out silence as the fire blanked away to nothing.

Dean stared hard at where Crowley would be appearing.

A few moments passed and Cas held his hands together awkwardly.

Another few, and it didn't look like Dean was breathing.

"Dean―"

"Wait," Dean said, and Cas could tell it was supposed to be rude and biting, but all he saw was the sincerity, the doubt, the desperation. "He'll come. He has to."

"_Dean_," Cas insisted. "If he doesn't come―"

"There's still time."

"I could send Hannah―"

"That brain dead―"

"_Be respectful,_Dean."

"Fine. That _half_brain dead―"

"I can see that you're being _entirely_ridiculous on this matter."

"Damn right," Dean's jaw was tight. "Pretty sure I'm _allowed_―"

"Oh, here we go," Crowley groaned, rolling his eyes and standing comfortably inside the devils trap. "Another 'Dean the Deserving Martyr Speech'."

"Crowley," Dean said, his voice a comfortable mix between resentment and relief.

Cas turned and the two took each other in.

Crowley's lip curled. "Cas. How's the family doing?"

"Fine," Cas said. "How's hell?"

"Fine," Crowley responded easily.

"Where's Sam's soul?" Dean demanded, eyeing Crowley, not seeing the typical briefcase.

Crowley tutted and pulled out an amulet from his pocket. "So tetchy. I promised, didn't I?"

Dean held his hand out, shaking, to the gold horned amulet dangling from Crowley's fingertips. The demon was watching him oddly. But Dean didn't respond, didn't give him anything to read off.

Because it was _the_amulet.

And as he held it, it was _warm_. Warm and alive, and there was something in it that tickled at his fingers, pushed against his skin. Something there and pulsating and alive. Something that sung of scruffy brown hair and hidden smiles, sunflower eyes and a shoulder shifting comfortably against his. Something that sang out, long and hard; _home, home, home._

Cas asked the question he wasn't able to articulate. "Why did you find this?" His tone was demanding, shocked, but nothing like Dean's would have been. No gasping or crying or fidgeting.

"Funniest thing," Crowley said. "I found it in the bottom of this motel bin. Thought someone mustn't have wanted it, so I kept it. Finders keepers, eh?"

"Answer the question, Crowley," Dean ordered, letting his fingers grasp hold of the black string that had worn long and hard against his neck, finding for a few seconds the sense of mind to unravel the mystery.

Crowley looked miffed now. "Souls without bodies need something to hold onto, don't they? Something _close_to them? Something that might symbolise a need for living beyond death?"

Dean drew in a focused on the swinging charm dangling from his charm. It made sense, that Sam's soul would be connected to this. Because the world was saved, wasn't it? As saved as it was going to get. The only reason Sam had to hang around was family, and nothing really spelt out family like the amulet Dean hadn't taken off for years...well, had worn until their disastrous trip to heaven.

"May I―?" Cas asked awkwardly, holding out his hand at Dean's side, the amulet hovering a few inches above his palm.

"Oh, yeah man, sure," Dean said, letting the necklace fall and regretting it immediately, suddenly feeling a lot worse than he had been, with the amulet wound around his hand, singing back old memories. That Christmas, that present, his little brother smiling as Dean pushed the necklace over his head.

"Heart warming," Crowley commented. "Can I go?"

"Wait," Dean said, despite that Crowley wouldn't have been able to leave without Dean helping him from the devils trap. "Why'd you..." he trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence without making Sam's resurrection more draining than it already would be.

Hell's king shrugged lazily. "I always pay off my debts, remember?"

"But―" Dean hadn't _given_him anything. Nothing but his trust, and a good deal of threats of bodily harm.

Crowley gave him a sharp look. "Don't ask, don't tell. Clear?"

"Crystal," Dean returned the look with equal fever.

There was a silence that was interrupted by a soft cough from Cas's end. "Uh, I believe I know how to resurrect your brother."

Crowley glared at them both. "May I _go_? I have a plateau of consciousness to overrule, you know."

Dean bent down and adjusted the trap so that Crowley could step out. Without another word the demon vanished, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of sulphur and the amulet, encased entirely within Cas's hand.

"He is an odd fellow," Cas frowned at where Crowley had been standing.

"Cas, Sam," Dean reminded him, a little forcefully. "You said you had an idea."

"Do you remember Adam?" Cas asked, looking up at Dean, frowning slightly as he ran his thoughts alongside each other.

Dean didn't have to cast far back in his mind to remember his little half brother burning in the depths of Hell, the only plaything for Lucifer and Michael. "Sure. What of him?"

"He crawled up from a coffin," Cas explained. "Like you when I rescued you from hell."

"And?" Dean waved his hand irritably to get Cas to hurry on with his story.

"You burnt him, Dean," Cas said slowly. "Gave him a _hunters_funeral."

"A cemetery?" Dean asked, understanding.

Cas nodded. "And an empty grave."

Dean set his jaw in determination. "I know one. A few miles from here. Shouldn't take long to drive."

Cas nodded slowly. "As long as there's an empty grave, we should be fine."

Dean was already taking off out of the dungeons double doors. "C'mon."

* * *

The graveyard was a large one, large enough that as they looked through the misty haze of early morning, they couldn't make the back. An eternity of gravestones spilled out before them, guarded by a pair of iron gates and two snarling gargoyles. If it weren't for the upkeep of the grace, the place had a detached, abandoned feel. Like these were people who no one coming to see them. Like these were graves that would be and had been forever bare of flowers or pictures. Skeletons and souls devoid of love.

Dean shivered, and he told himself it was the weather. Cas pressed his hand to the gate and his broke open, white light flaring from his palm, the doors sliding creakily to either side. "Well, that was useful. Sure you can waste Grace on that?"

"Yes," Cas agreed, walking off, Dean huffing and hurrying to keep up with him. "Ever since I got my Grace back, it's being able to do these things that remind me all the good that it entails."

Dean felt a little guilty for not bringing up the Grace debacle with his friend while they had prepared to talk with Crowley, but he felt like he could be excused, and Cas obviously didn't blame him for it, moving steadily through the site, not looking overly put out, other than the incessant frown of concentration.

"Anything?" Dean pressed.

Cas shook his head. "Nothing."

Dean hurried up to fall in step with Castiel. "Wha―"

Cas raised up his hand for silence.

Dean frowned. "Ca―"

Cas hushed him with a withering look.

Dean held his hands up in surrender. "Fine, man. Whatever."

Cas ignored him and Dean could tell that he was trying his hardest not to roll his eyes. He stood very still and Dean watched him impatiently.

Cas looked at him, and when their eyes met, Dean saw that the recently powered up angel was smiling. "I've got one."

* * *

Dean should have realised that there'd be honour graves, ones erected in order for the family to have some sort of closure, celebrate some sort of end. That there must be some deaths where the body didn't show up, that there were empty caskets buried deep into the earth, chock full and _heavy_with all that it _didn't_hold.

What Dean didn't know was that the first one Cas would find would be the non-grave for a child. Where the body was, he wasn't sure. How the kid had died, he could only guess. But the absent grave of Lacy Taylor was serving him now, and wherever she was, whether she was blissful in heaven or watching from the inbetween layer, limbo, he wanted to thank her.

Dean sat back beside the grave as Cas tended to it, drawing rigid lines in the dirt, still holding the amulet. Dean itched to snatch it out of his hands and just..._hold_it. Feel Sam's warmth dawning on him again, his little brother's homeliness settling upon him. Comforting him.

But Dean knew that that was ridiculous, that Cas bringing Sam back was a thousand, a million times better than the faint idea of Sam's essence that he got from rubbing his fingers on the amulet of a necklace.

No matter how important the necklace was, no matter how much he needed it, adored it.

Cas dropped the necklace onto the dirt and took an unsteady step back, staggering until Dean jumped up and steadied him.

"You ok?" Dean asked, setting him carefully, stepping back, but still close enough to jump in again if he needed to.

Cas nodded, a little pale, but he looked content, _happy_, healthy. "I will be fine, Dean."

"How―"

"He will be waking up soon," Cas said softly, gazing at the dirt of the grave. And Dean watched with him, trepidation and nervousness tripping over each other in the deepest depths of his stomach.

Dean nodded and sat down carefully at the foot of the grave. He looked up to Cas. "How long?"

"Not all that much time will pass," Cas said clinically. "His body must reform, and then he must awake. He will be exhausted. For now and a few days."

Dean nodded again, to Cas and to himself, and tucked his cold hands against his body and under his arms.

"It was a good choice, this graveyard," Cas mentioned, looking around, eyebrows clenched slightly together as he took in the spilling green hills and the eternity of grey slabs of concrete. When Dean looked at him quizzically, he tilted his head towards one of the large, walk in graves. The sort that people bought if they were rich and born in the 1800's. "It's a portal to Heaven."

"Wait, shit, really?" Dean almost got up, but then the newly turned dirt across the top of the grave seemed to shudder.

"I will take my leave now," Cas told him, turning away to where the portal was. "Goodbye, Dean. Tell Sam I said hi."

Dean almost told him to come back, almost wished for him to stay...but he _didn't_. Because when Sam came to, he wanted it to be just them. Just _them_. Like with Missouri, like a decade ago.

And so Cas disappeared off into the building, and Dean turned back to the dirt, the dirt that was _definitely _shifting now, before he saw the flash of light that told him Cas had returned home.

Dean jerked forward and started digging, hands pushing the dirt across.

_Damn it, why did I forget a shovel_―

and

_Dirt and breathing and c'mon, brother, little brother, you can do it._

and

_Sam Sammy, Sam, Sam, Sam_ _―_

Again and again in his head, overlapping, coercing, jumbling to a chorus.

Dean felt his heart skip as the dirt beneath him shifted. He cursed himself for his short-sightedness and leapt to the side of the grave, knees fixed to the grass.

When a hand reached out numbly from the ground, Dean grabbed it, gasping with relief, laughing, both hands secured on Sam, one through his fingers and another around his wrist.

As the dirt shifted, the lines of the spell broke and the amulet fell within the separating dirt, folding within the dark brown earth. But Dean didn't focus on that, _care_about that. All he cared about was that hand, his brother, _Sam_.

Dean turned back to the grave and pulled, a sleeved arm emerging first, then a shoulder, and then with another push, Sam's gasp sounded over the deserted cemetery.

Dean heaved again and Sam staggered out of the ground, dirt dusting across his mouth, eyelashes, caught in his hair, gritty along his skin and staining his clothes.

Dean tugged him up, holding Sam by the shoulders as he stared at his brothers face.

Sam's eyes peeked open, first as slits and then, blinking, into full operation.

Sam coughed. "D'n―"

Dean rushed forward and pulled his brother into a hug, trapping Sam against him, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Slotting in like he belonged there, Sam's unsteady breaths sounding in his ears.

Dean closed his eyes and felt Sam's warmth, his solidness and the firm beat of his heart beneath Dean's chest. _Thump,_and again, like it was crying out to him.

I'm here, _I'm here_.

Thump, _thu-thump_.

"Sam," Dean said, and his voice cracked, so he just held on tighter, eyes closing again when he felt Sam's hands move, returning the embrace.

"I'm ok," Sam said, sitting back, and Dean let him go, mostly, hand positioned onto Sam's arm. Dean watched as Sam took him in, staring, eyes wide breathing settling down. Sam nodded, and then there was a smile, pure and fleeting, but there all the same. "I'm ok."

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, hand clenching into Sam's shirt, the fabric on his sleeve bunching up as Dean's fingers dug in.

_Real_and _here_and _home_and _Sam._

"Hey," Sam greeted, still dazed, eyes glazing over, not quite meeting Dean's as he stared at his brothers face.

Dean stood and helped Sam up, still clutching onto his arm, still maintaining that hold, that tie. Soul to soul, hand to arm, skin to cloth.

Sam swayed and Dean caught him, steadying him, looking up carefully as Sam blinked into comprehension.

"You right?" Dean asked, setting Sam carefully onto his feet, still keeping that hold. _Soul to soul._

"I'm good," Sam said, bracing himself by standing with his feet apart. He pushed his gritty hair back from his face. "I'm―I'm fine."

"Hey man, at least Cas managed to get some clothes onto you," Dean said, taking his brother in. Simply dressed in a single shirt and a pair of jeans and Sam's usual pair of boots _was_ pretty much naked from his brothers point of view, who always seemed to have seven layers on. Even in summer.

Sam managed half a laugh, still a little breathless, reaching his hand up and letting it rest by Dean's collarbone. "Thank you, Dean."

He let his hand fall back to his side and Dean reluctantly let his hold on Sam's shirt fall away.

Dean smiled and Sam responded in kind, and the amulet that his brothers soul had been attached to shifted in the dirt, in the place where a small girls body should have been at rest.

* * *

"And they're both ok?" Hannah asked, sitting prim and proper across from Cas in Metatron's study. She was worried, of that she could admit to herself. Sam had been her friend, for all that the word entailed, and she had _hurt_when he'd died. She'd _felt_.

Cas looked across at her, dwarfed by the massive desk Metatron had called his own. It had been mostly cleared out now, with the odd scrap floating around across the top. Next to Cas was a pile of paper in the form of a report, the response to the angel's who'd been altered by Metatron's through Naomi's Influence. None of it was looking good, and Cas was looking more and more gaunt with every piece of bad news that came their way.

Despite his worry, Hannah still saw him as a potential leader. Because if there was anyone who could teach the angels about redemption, it was Cas.

"They're both fine," Cas assured her. "Now, back to the souls. How are they being transported?"

"Reapers are working on taking as many as they can at once, but it's a slow process," Hannah recited. "And we lost some on earth."

"Went rogue?" Cas asked.

Hannah shrugged. "That and died."

Cas looked thoughtful. "Can I instate other angels to the roles of Reapers?"

"You need to be trained for it," Hannah said slowly. "But maybe. I was a Negotiator before it was made redundant by Michael and Raphael. Angels _can_switch duties. It's just..." Hannah made a face,

"Unheard of," Cas summarised blatantly. He sighed. "We'll need volunteers."

Hannah gave a small approving smile. "Right away."

"The angel tablet," Cas added. "Has anyone found that yet? Sensed it?"

"Seraphina said that she sensed it when she was opening the doorway to Egypt, but..." Hannah scrunched up her nose and made her disbelief in Seraphina obvious. "So no. No ground made up on that end."

Cas just smiled. "Fair enough. Seraphina is not always the most..._promising_source."

"I just wonder..." Hannah started awkwardly, looking away when she caught Cas watching her, head tilted to the side. What she was going to say...to any other leader Heaven had had in the past infinity, this would have been utter blasphemy, of the highest order. Her rank as Commander would have been ripped off her, thousands of years she would have been left to rot in the jail. But she trusted Cas, trusted him to understand where her heart was. "If any of this will be enough."

Cas looked at her, compassionate. "Why?"

"It's just..." Hannah stared at her hands, curled politely on her lap. "We find the angel tablet and hope that it fixes the angels locked under Metatron's control, and then if that works, _pray_to our absent father that they accept you as their stand in head."

"Not all of them were under Naomi's Influence," Cas reminded her. "And they've accepted me. And it would make sense for Metatron to want to control those most likely to want to come to my side."

"I suppose," Hannah acknowledged. But she tilted her head. "But what? We somehow translate the Word and find a counterspell for the locking of the gate, and then? We go back to the way things were? Garrisons living under the skies of heaven, promised things that were never going to happen?" Cas was silent, so she ploughed on. "Like the apocalypse, and Lilith. To stop them. And then, when they said that the apocalypse was coming to pass, and we knew, we _knew_, that they'd done it on purpose, we just couldn't make ourselves care enough, because," she felt her hands square into fists. "Because_humanity_didn't matter enough. All those souls didn't matter enough. _Lives_. We'll go back to that...to that messed up _detachment_and I just _can't_. I won't watch myself turn into that monster again."

Cas was utterly quiet as he absorbed her words, and, embarrassed, Hannah stared at her fingers as they clenched around each other. She was _terrified_. She couldn't go back. She _wouldn't_.

"I promise that I won't let anyone but the most fit take over my role," Cas promised. His voice was low and sincere, enough that Hannah looked up and met him, eyes meeting. "And I promise, to you and all the angels, that things will _never_be the way they were."

Hannah gave a small smile.

Cas reached across the table and she followed suit. Their clasped hands met in the middle. Much like the time that Hannah had kissed Cas on the cheek, this was compassion, family. This was two friends, consoling each other over the fate of the universe.

* * *

To Sam, the car ride back had been an...experience. Dean had taken a deep breath, staring ahead through the windscreen of the car and told Sam everything.

Metatron and Crowley, Sam's soul, his funeral pyre. Everything. Down to Tessa telling Dean what Sam had been doing within the veil. Gadreel dying, angels having two names...everything.

But of all of it, there was one thing Sam took most to heart. "You used the blade again."

Dean stilled at Sam's words and Sam could feel his brothers regret bubbling below the surface.

"Look, Sammy―"

"I just..." Sam interrupted, huddling down in the passenger seat, watching as the world charged passed his window, dirt streaked face reflected in the glass. "It was making you something you weren't, Dean. You know that, right?"

"I know," Dean said rigidly. "I uh, saw Missouri―"

"Wait, wait," Sam glanced over to Dean, despite the mood, a smile manifesting across his lips. "Missouri _Moseley_? That psychic from Lawrence? The one who threatened you with a spoon?"

Dean smiled as well. "That'd be her."

"Wow," Sam shook his head. "That'd have to be―"

"9 years," Dean finished dryly. "Yeah, she reminded me once or twice."

Sam grinned. Actually grinned. He remembered Missouri with an odd sort of fondness. The whole trip to Lawrence had been emotionally draining for them both. Sam had nearly died a few times, Dean had nearly died a few times, Mary had appeared to save them and two siblings growing up with an only parent? In _their_house?

Hit a little close to home.

And Missouri had been entangled in the middle, with them from the start and promising to be with them till the end...not that they'd exactly _let_her.

"How is she?"

"Angry that we haven't called."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, I can imagine."

"Sam," Dean said, and his voice was grave. Sam settled back, waiting for his brothers explanation. There was a rigid silence before Dean spoke. "You know, Cain, promised his wife that he wouldn't kill, when he accidentally killed her."

Sam frowned but didn't say anything.

Dean stared hard at the road. "He gave up the oath because he found something to fight for again."

"Cain _belongs_to the blade," Sam reminded him. "That desire―"

"I didn't _want_to use it," Dean said, as if he was just realising it himself. "It felt...perverse, I guess. After I promised you. But Cas needed help with Metatron. And we did it, we _did_it, Sammy. Metatron's dead. So...I _understand_, but..._please_don't be mad. Can we..." he spared a moment to look at Sam, who was watching him with an unreadable expression, marred even more so by how dirty his face was. "Can we _please_not fight?"

Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His already gritted fingernails pulled away more dirt. "I'm not mad, Dean."

Dean frowned, stealing another moment to look at Sam. "You're not?"

"I'm not mad about...any of it," Sam admitted. "I'm glad that you told me. I guess...it was too much to ask. If it had been me..." he dwindled off, not wanting to state openly how far he'd go, how many oaths he'd break to bring Dean back. He cleared his throat and set the conversation down a different path. "How is it now?"

Dean shook his head. "That's why I went to Missouri. She dampened the effect. Did the usual Magic Fingers and capped me off."

"Good," Sam said, and he felt a surge of relief. "That's really...that's _awesome_Dean."

There was a silence, which Dean filled with messing around with the radio, looking for the channel he went for whenever he got sick of the same three cassette tapes he listened to.

"Dude, did you say 'Magic Fingers'?" Sam scrunched up his nose. "I just...ugh. That's kinda rank, man."

Dean glared at him, sitting back, the Sweet blaring out of the speakers. "Shut up."

Sam sat back into a relaxed silence.

Dean clenched his jaw. "Oh God. I _hate_this song."

* * *

_References:_

_Hello Resurrection, my old friend: comes from the line in the Sound of Silence, the Simon and Garfunkel song. 'Hello Darkness, my old friend'._

_Magic Fingers: What Dean grossly grew attached to when Sam put him under house arrest in 'Houses of the Holy'._

_The Sweet, the band Dean plays at the end, it best known for 'Ballroom Blitz' and 'Fox on the Run'. You either love 'em or you hate 'em, and with Dean's MO for 'good' music, I felt he'd be more on the latter end of the scale._

_NEXT CHAPTER: __**Return of the Jedi**_


	4. Return of the Jedi

_Greetings Earthlings,_

_I realised I haven't done this yet, so disclaimer. None of this belongs to me, I'm not doing this for profit and the characters and previous mentioned arcs belong in their entirety to the CW and Kripke Enterprises._

_So now, after all the hullabaloo of the previous three chapters, the brothers are settling down, back to the good ole' saving people mantra. Enjoy!_

_Things Researched: 30's slang, towns in southern south dakota, plot lines and release dates for old movies, history of colour TV and colour Movies, particulars for the Wizard of Oz movie._

_Rewatch: 9x04 Slumber Party_

* * *

"I've been wandering round

But I still come back to you

In rain or shine

You've stood by me girl

I'm happy, happy at home

You're my best friend."

- _You're My Best Friend, _Queen

* * *

"Stop―_stop_!"

Sue scowled, pushing her brush through her sisters hair, wrestling with the tangles.

"You're _hurting _me!" Rachel snarled, jerking away and running her hand over her hair, picking off the bumps that Sue's brush had left. "Can you just _stop_?"

Sue crossed her arms over her chest. The 16 year old had a nasty habit of turning 12 years younger when she didn't get her way. "You're the one who _asked _me to do it!"

"Yeah," Rachel agreed. "Do my hair. Not _rip it out of my scalp_."

"Ooo, big words, little girl."

Rachel looked at her big sister, at a loss. "Which of those was even _remotely _big?"

Sue opened her mouth to speak, but didn't say anything, just letting her lips press together in irritation. She worked her jaw and threw the brush onto the bed. "_Fine_. I'll just _go _then!"

"Good," Rachel said, pushing her hand through her still matted hair, looking pointedly away. Sue glared at Rachel, and made as if to say something, before she turned and her heel and slammed the door.

Rachel took deep breaths as she heard her sister stomp down the hallway into her room, the door sounding shut throughout the house.

She pressed her lips together, forcing a scream to sound strangled as she fell onto her bed. Her date was coming to pick her up in an hour, and she and Sue were supposed to be bonding over it. I mean, sure, Rachel was sure that there was _some _resentment, her being 14 and already nearly DTRing with a boy, and Sue being 16 and never even having _kissed _one, but...

As soon as the thought manifested, Rachel felt guilty. But she couldn't go and see Sue now. It didn't matter how trivial the argument seemed. Sue would find something else to fling Rachel's way. Her grades or their parent's divorce, or how much more their mother liked Rachel over her.

Rachel groaned and reached for her headphones, hoping that pounding some top 20's would settle her, or at least put her into a better mood for when Matt arrived.

And so it was, that when a screech and a flash of wings reverberated against her window, she didn't hear it, just sensed it.

And because from however young, we're taught to _ignore _that slither down your spine that says, _there's something behind you_, when Rachel realised what was going on, it was already too late.

* * *

Deciding to lay low had been Dean's idea. No more hunts for a while. No more ghosts or rugaru's or goddamned _pagan gods_. No more people needing saving, no more putting their lives on the line.

At least, not for now.

Sam had wanted to see Cas, but the angel was busy, up in heaven. He'd only come down long enough to tell them that he was Caretaker, that he was in charge of all the comings and goings, and that if they needed someone, it was better that they asked Hannah before him. Because from her, they might actually get a response.

"Hey, you right?" Dean asked, barely even registering that he'd asked the same question a thousand times over the past four days. Ever since Sam's resurrection, Dean had been acting like this. Sam couldn't say he blamed him, couldn't hate the eyes that watched his every step, but he _could _feel disgruntled when Dean came out with chicken soup and a thermometer.

Gladly, he'd only done that once.

Sam looked up from where he was, sitting on the table in the library and quickly clicking over his page to something non-hunting related. His emails had gotten pretty backed up while he'd been...otherwise occupied, and it was as good a cover as any.

"Fine," Sam said easily. "Seriously man, I'm totally fine."

Dean gave the computer a suspicious look. "You weren't researching any jobs, were you?"

"Uh, no," Sam lied easily. "Just, you know, checkin' my email."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You're an honest to god Fletcher Reed, you know that?"

Sam sighed and leant back, clicking open to the new article he'd been reading. "Sorry. I just...I honestly feel _fine_, Dean. I feel like we should be _out _there, you know, killing evil."

"No," Dean said defiantly. "You want lunch?"

"_Yes_," Sam insisted, frowning. Then he let his face drop and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, we just need to check it out. I'm not saying we take it, I'm just saying we get out of here. Honestly, I'm gonna have to go all Shawshank on your ass if I have to stay in here for another week."

Dean managed a smile at the 'Shawshank', but he looked less than convinced. "Call Tracy. Or Carlos. This isn't our call, man. We're out of the frying pan now."

"We can see if it's real, and _then _call them," Sam suggested. He knew if they just _got _there, and Dean saw that he was actually fine, then maybe he'd be able to convince him. Because Sam was going stir crazy in the bunker. All the hidden rooms and passages had been mostly found, and all the ones that were left were boring. (Probably). Sam just wanted a reason to stretch his legs, to talk to people who weren't watching him like every breath was going to be his last.

Dean watched him for a while. Then he broke. "You're _sure_?"

"Positive," Sam affirmed. Fingers rubbing against each other as his hand hovered over the keyboard.

Dean managed to smile again. "Well, it's either that or naming the bunker 'Stalag Luft', right?"

Sam grinned. "Right. We even have Dorothy's motorbike in the garage."

"So what's happened?" Dean asked, leaning over Sam's shoulder to see the screen.

Sam typed quickly on the computer and the articles popped up, springing all over the computer. "Five girls in three days, all across the south of South Dakota, throats torn, inside locked rooms. The whole MO."

"Weird," Dean murmured. "Anything in common?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. Didn't even know each other."

"How far apart were they?"

"Far apart enough that it couldn't have been a spirit," Sam sighed, rolling onto another article, bringing up the story of 'Rachel Jenkins', the young girls face smiling in the corner, next to it the tear stained face of her family.

"Wait," Dean frowned. "Is that Rachel's family?"

"Seems to be, yeah," Sam frowned, and then looked up at Dean. "Why?"

"They've got a daughter," he said, pointing at the older sister, a pale, distant girl labelled 'Susan Jenkins' by the bottom of the picture. "I mean, we gotta wonder why her sister was taken, and not her."

Sam let the revelation sink in. Then he looked up at Dean, who was still leaning over him, his chest brushing the back of Sam's shoulder as he bent to see the laptop more easily. Sam smiled. "Interested?"

Dean looked a little taken aback, before allowing a sheepish grin to come over his features. "Oh yeah. Haven't had a full blown murder-mystery in ages."

"Let's suit up," Sam said, jumping up and slamming the laptop closed. "You good?"

"Sure," Dean said, standing with him. Sam smiled when he saw the glint of life jump into Dean's eye. "Animal Control, or FBI?"

"Feds," Sam answered easily.

"Your hair's too long to be a Fed."

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes. "You wish."

"Honestly, Sam, just a little off the sides..."

"_No_."

"Alright, alright. Don't know why you think you're so damn allergic to haircuts, though. Few more years and you'll be a dead ringer for Cousin Itt."

Sam tried not to react to obviously to how casually Dean had said 'Few more years' but couldn't help the grin of excitement.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing," Sam said hastily. "Just, if I'm cousin Itt, you're Wednesday Addams."

Dean frowned and opened his mouth to retort, before considering it and slowing down. "I can deal with that."

Sam just laughed. "Get your suit on, Wednesday."

"On it, Juror number 8."

* * *

The house where the Jenkins's lived was pretty typical of any white family with the last name 'Jenkins'. The white picket fences and clean, grey and beige weatherboards covering a large family home. If the weather had been better, Dean could have taken a photo and sent it in to advertise lawns, or fences, or doorhandles, or whatever the hell it was the people advertised these days.

"Dog?" Dean looked over glaringly at the bunch of toys on the veranda as he and Sam stood by the doorway.

Sam was a little more animated (that is to say, nearly jumped out of his skin in excitement) and turned to where Dean was looking. "Dog? Where?"

Dean laughed. "Seriously, dude?"

Sam looked down, but he smiled. "C'mon, Dean. _Dogs_."

"They shed all over my car, and bark," Dean stated, flat out. "And bite. All the time."

Sam was exasperated, like he was whenever Dean tugged him into the conversation. "Only _some_―"

"Hello?" A voice from the doorway asked, and the two turned in synch to the sound. Sam's eyes went from amused and irritated to soft and sincere, and Dean straightened his back.

"Good morning, Ma'am," Dean greeted to the middle aged woman standing in the doorway, who he recognised as Rachel's mother from the picture. "I understand that this is a hard time, but we need to speak to you about your daughter's death."

The woman swallowed, holding her hand close to her throat, a knitted scarf bunched around her hand. "I don't―"

"We understand that you've been through this," Sam assured her softly. "We understand you just want to move on. But we can help. We just want to let Rachel rest in peace."

The woman took in Sam with a new sort of appreciation. She coughed when she realised that she'd been staring at Sam for too long of a time, and step back to let them entrance into the house.

Dean kept his grin to himself, about how Sam only seemed attractive to women a decade older than him, and followed the grieving mother and his brother into the living room.

"Now," Sam said, settling down on the couch, Dean seating himself next to him. Perhaps a little closer than professional, but since Sam had come back, his protective instincts had been kicked into overdrive. All he wanted was for Sam to _live through this_. Get to a ripe old age, finally grow old enough to catch the eye of a woman his age. Dean looked across at the woman and smiled as Sam spoke. "Who was the last person to see Rachel?"

"Susan," Rachel's mother said, answering immediately.

The brothers exchanged a glance. "Uh, may we speak with her?"

"You can try," she said, barking a humourless laugh. "She shut herself in her room after our press interview."

Dean thought that it was fair enough, the loss of a sibling was...tough, to say in the least. But the mother looked bitter. He supposed he couldn't blame her either. She'd lost a child, and now her other one was on the verge of being lost as well.

If no one saw you, spoke with you, loved you...did you exist at all?

"Do you..." Sam looked at him and gestured to Mrs. Jenkins and then to the stairs.

Dean stood. "I'll talk to Suzy. You just keep answering those questions ma'am, and we'll be out of your hair in not time."

"She's up the top and to the left," Mrs. Jenkin's said. "First door on the right."

Dean forgot her instructions as soon as he walked towards the staircase, but figured he'd be able to figure it out eventually. He shouldn't have worried, because as soon as he was up the stairs, he saw the girl sitting by the railing, back against the wall, eyes closed, listening intently.

"You must be Susan," Dean greeted. "I'm Dean."

Susan took her time opening her eyes. She shifted her head and watched him carefully. "I know."

Dean's expression hardened slightly, eyebrows shifting down. "Just being polite, you know how it is. I say hi, you say hi, we sit down. I ask questions, you answer questions."

Susan watched him for a long time, before slowly standing up, so that she leant on the wall facing him. "You have any siblings?" Dean brought his eyebrows together, but the girl kept on. "Any little siblings?"

Dean paused and melded his features into nonchalance. "A brother."

She watched him, hard. "You ever fight with him?"

"All the time," Dean assured her. He didn't want to ask where she was heading, disrupting her chain of thought, but perhaps her unloading would give him some insight into why her sister was chosen rather than her.

Susan nodded. She balled her hands into fists and looked determinedly close to tears. "And it's always about such _stupid _things, like, like things that didn't even _matter_. Not in the end."

"Right," Dean agreed. _Not exactly_. But most people didn't have fights at an apocalyptic scale, and even then, arguing and fighting came nowhere near as helpful as fleshing it out and talking about it did. Not that Dean would ever admit that.

Susan closed her arms around herself and looked down. "I was so..._stupid_. We were fighting about the _stupidest _thing and..." she looked dangerously close to falling apart now, and Dean had half a mind to call Sam to help him. "And I _want her back_."

"Your mom says you were the last person who spoke with her," Dean said. "Was there anything off about her? Anything unusual?"

Sue shook her head. "Nothing. She was normal. Happy and normal. She'd gotten asked out on a date, you know. Matt was gonna take her to a movie."

Dean was silent in response, wanting to comfort her, but not knowing how.

"Mom's mad at me," she continued, venting. "She hates me for disappearing, but..." Dean didn't need her to fill in the gaps. He got it. She wanted to be alone, she wanted to deal with her thoughts alone.

Dean watched her carefully. "You take care of yourself, but you take care of your mom, too, ok?" He looked at her more intently as she ducked away. "You aren't doing yourselves any favours, locking yourself away from the world."

"This is _my_―"

"Why?" Dean interrupted her before she could claim that she'd been the cause of her sister's death. "What did you _do_, exactly, to make it _your _fault?"

Susan opened her mouth to speak, and slammed it angrily, tight, when she had nothing to say.

"That's what I thought," Dean said, almost cool. "Now. What were you doing before Rachel died?"

* * *

"And she was just brushing her hair, man," Dean shook his head, eyes not wavering from the road as he and Sam drove back to the bunker. "Nice and normal."

"By normal, you mean, not summoning Satan?" Sam guessed.

Dean titled his head. "More or less, yeah. But nothing adds up. What's the connection?"

Sam shrugged. "Mrs. Jenkins said that Sue was a bit of a handful. Maybe she was lying."

"Lie, maybe, but why _hair _brushing?"

Sam shrugged. "Easy lie to tell as―"

He paused and frowned. At his silence, Dean glanced over. "What?"

"Watch the road."

Dean sighed and fixed his sight out of the windscreen. "Seriously, Sammy. What?"

"Say that again."

Dean frowned in confusion. "Uh, Seriously―"

"Before that," Sam urged, holding a hand up as he wracked his brain, trying to track down the train of thought eluding him. The one that had held so much promise.

"Ok, the thing about brushing hair or―"

"_Hair_," Sam said, as it dawned on him. "All the girls, Caucasian, or at least passing for, with red or brown hair. Right?"

"All of them have either red or brown hair?" Dean asked, dubious. "_That _is what we're building our case off?"

"Better than nothing," Sam said, frowning. "If we follow this up, maybe we can―"

"Sam, we're..." Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "We're laying _low, _remember? This is not our thing. I got Carlos to send me Tracy Bell's number. Or we could call Jody."

Sam stiffened his jaw, and didn't say anything.

Dean sighed and pressed his foot down, hard, on the accelerator, pressing the impala up a particularly steep hill, soot coloured tire marks stretching out behind them as they gunned it for the bunker, for warmth and safety and home.

If Dean was honest, which, in his profession, where lies came with the fake badge and credit cards, wasn't all that often, he'd say he was scared. Dean didn't have that positive of a relationship with the truth in the first place, but add it with admitting a failure of his strength and well...yeah. Nonexistent.

Because what if he did start fighting again? How would Missouri's spell last with that? Would it wear away faster if he brought back those primal instincts? The ones that had kept him alive in purgatory, the ones that _terrified _him?

So he'd put up the screen. The failsafe. And part of the truth. Sam had _died. _He'd been _dead_. And Dean didn't want to deal with that, didn't want to revisit that. Not any time soon. Sam needed his strength back, needed to jump back in when _both _of them were sure. But it wasn't the entire truth.

Dean didn't acknowledge any of this as he drove him and his brother through the country to their underground home. Their very own place.

He didn't really acknowledge _anything_.

* * *

Sam had been sitting in the library when it happened. The computer that he wasn't supposed to be on was open on websites he'd been told to avoid, and his mind whirred around the case that Dean was on his way to passing on.

Could he be right? Other than the fact that all the victims were girls, this seemed to be the only connection. Not a very strong one, but perhaps enough to propel him to realise something. Red and brown, red and brown.

The answer knocked him out of his chair, literally.

Apparently, to get to Oz, you needed a magic key and a doorway. To get back, all you needed was a searing, enduring flash and a library table.

The air across the table started to pulsate and surge, white, bright light sizzled around in a mutating cloud of searing heat.

Sam jerked back and fell hard backwards, chair hitting the ground in a crack. He scrambled back, ignoring the pang of pain up his spine and didn't look away from the light, pulling out his gun, holding it, pointed squarely at the middle of the frothing thing.

"Sam!" Dean ran into the room, and Sam met his eyes in disbelief, nodding as Dean pulled out his own gun, copying Sam's pose, finger pressed readily on the trigger.

"I thought this place was supposed to be warded against everything!" Sam managed to make his voice louder that the crackle and snap of the light in front of them.

"It is!" Sam heard Dean bellow back, his brothers eyes still trained on the clouds movements.

And then, almost all at once, it stopped. And two girls fell out.

Dean jerked forward, gun trained squarely on the two, with narrowed eyes and quick steps. Sam followed his lead, finger nearing the trigger, eyes darting from girl to girl, until―

"_Charlie_?" Dean let the gun fall, so that it grew lax in his hands and pointed to the floor. Sam went another step further, tucking his pistol back into the back of his pants.

Sam moved forward as Dean did. "Wait, Dorothy?"

"Hey, bitches," Charlie made out, tiredly, but grinning, propping herself up on the table. Next to her, Dorothy was regaining her bearings, looking around the room, usually impeccable hair in disarray. "You ever ridden a tornado before?"

* * *

"I just...it was _wow_," Charlie gushed, sighing and curling into her hot chocolate. Sam shook his head, grinning. Dean had insisted that they wrap a blanket around their shoulders and keep their heat up. Dorothy had taken to it surly, but Charlie had relished, cupping the molten chocolate and milk with a dreamy sort of expression. "I mean, you think, Quest! Hooray! But...no way, man. This was..._beyond _awesome."

"As you can see, she was awfully enthusiastic," Dorothy remarked dryly, but Sam saw the fondness in her eyes as she took in her friend. "The people of the Emerald City didn't know what to do with themselves."

"The Munchkin's, too," Charlie added, taking a sip of her drink.

Dean smiled, and raised his eyebrows. He seemed in a constant state of bemusement around Charlie, but Sam wasn't swayed from the knowledge of how fond Dean was of the girl. She was like his sister, she was like _Sam's _sister. And extending their little family, after...well, everything, didn't seem like such a bad thing.

"So, then, why'd you leave?" Sam asked, ladling himself out some of the hot chocolate from the massive pot in the kitchen and into another mug.

Charlie winced. "Ah, yeah. So, the Wicked Witch of the West seemed to have a pretty strong fall back plan. And like, the flying monkeys and stuff were a pain."

"More than a pain," Dorothy supplied seriously. "They were massing forces against the two of us, so we lay low for a while. Then it just...stopped. Good for a while, worrying after that."

"You think they've come to earth?" Sam asked, frowning, thinking back to all he knew about them. Then he looked up and saw Charlie and Dorothy. He tilted his head and frowned.

"Yeah," Charlie said, mostly oblivious to Sam's scrutiny. "We think they think we have. And it's either here or another fairy realm, and, well..." she looked sheepish. "Those are _really _hard to get access to."

"For us and the monkeys," Dorothy expanded. She didn't even seem to bat an eye as she filled in the gaping holes Charlie left in her explanation. Then again, they'd been together for about a year. When you're with someone for that long, you grow and they grow, so that you sort of just slot together. "But there are numerous ways to get to earth, and if you have the means..."

Dean was serious now, his arms crossed against his chest. "And what'll they do? If they get here?"

"They're looking for us," Dorothy said, just as Charlie made out "Carnage." between sips of hot chocolate. Dorothy looked at Charlie and rolled her eyes.

That was the thing that propelled Sam to make the connection. He turned to Dean, already preparing the list of defences he'd put together. "Dean, the girls, red heads and brunettes...you don't think it's a coincidence?"

"Wait, what's happening?" Charlie asked, looking quickly between Sam and then Dean, who was watching Sam, a sort of understanding stealing over his features.

Dorothy was more to the point. "Have you seen the monkeys?"

"Not exactly," Sam answered her without looking away from Dean's troubled face. "But there've been a series of supernatural murders, kudos to some sort of animal. Throat ripped, closed windows and doors, all separate girls along the southern border of South Dakota. You know of any portals to Oz down there?"

Dorothy shook her head slowly. "The only portal to Oz is with the key. But they might have accidently stumbled upon a way to get there."

"Hot air balloon?" Dean joked.

"Maybe," Dorothy said, misreading the tone of his question, and Charlie's face was pinched with worry. "But it doesn't matter. If it _is _Flying Monkeys, then we need to stop them. They're lethal and remorseless. They'll kill anything in their path."

"What do we do?" Sam asked, placing his hot chocolate down on the bench and moving nearer to where Dorothy and Charlie were sitting.

"We could...let them know that we were here and trap them back into Oz?" Charlie suggested, looking to Dorothy for the other Hunter's approval.

Dorothy looked unconvinced, but she nodded slowly. "It'd take a bit of manoeuvring, but I think we could do it."

"What would you need?" Sam asked.

"Summoning ritual," Charlie answered, in the space of Dorothy. She frowned a little and looked over to her friend. "Right?"

"Right," Dorothy affirmed.

* * *

Down in the archives, Charlie seemed more at home, more relaxed, than she'd been upstairs. She hummed under her breath, running her finger along the spines of books and files, and her cheeriness was almost unnerving.

"You're sure that you're ok, Charlie?" Dean pressed, standing beside her, hand left forgotten, resting on a large book written in Latin.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine," Charlie smiled. "I mean, Hell, Oz was intense, man. But _awesome _as well. Dorothy..." she trailed off and sighed happily.

"You got a bit of a crush?" Dean guessed. "I don't blame you."

"Don't be a moron, Buzz," Charlie chastised, but she was blushing. She looked a little more happy though, as she went about her business, a small smile her constant friend along the curves of her lips. Dean smiled to himself and went on looking alongside her, tracing his fingers along the spines of the books.

"Oh, by the way," Charlie said, interrupting the quiet abruptly. "I promised Dorothy that we'd watch the movie when we got back. She didn't seem all that for it, but, you know..." she shook her head as if Dorothy was being entirely unreasonable. "It's a _movie _about her. Like, a _movie_."

"It'd probably freak her out," Dean said. "I mean, was colour TV even invented when she disappeared?"

"No..." Charlie pondered. "So maybe we could drop her in slowly? Get her used to the whole shindig before the yellow bricks."

"Like...Godzilla?"

Charlie paused again and looked up at him, her face purposefully blank. "The remake or the original?"

Dean was offended. "The _remake, _because I just _love _destroying pop culture. No, obviously the original."

Charlie breathed out a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I thought I was going to have to unfriend you."

"Unfriend?"

"Facebook lingo," Charlie informed him, looking up at him, with a wry smile on her face. "It's weird how like, little you know of some things, and then how much you know of others."

"I'm busy. Saving the world and stuff."

Charlie arched an eyebrow. "I love you."

Dean answered automatically. "I know."

Charlie smiled, satisfied, and Dean frowned.

"Who would I, uh, friend?" ― Charlie nodded that he was using the correct terminology― "on facebook anyway?" Dean asked. "Other than you, and Sam if I could press him into getting it. All the people we know are either angels, demons, or dead."

"Fair enough," Charlie said. "But then you wouldn't have gotten so confused about the 'unfriend' bizzo."

"Can't say I'm really missing out on much."

"Yeah," Charlie agreed. "Gotta say, at least you skipped out on your meme phase."

Dean frowned. "What's a 'meem'?"

Charlie shook her head. "Oh, no. You don't wanna know."

"Right," Dean said slowly. "Where's Sam and Dorothy?"

"Probably talking about hair," Charlie mused. "They both have excellent skill man ship."

"Do _not _tell Sam that," Dean warned. "I've been trying to get him to cut his hair for _years_. Every time someone compliments him, it sets me back a couple of months."

Charlie laughed. "When was the last time Sam got his hair cut?"

Dean shook his head, smiling, turning back to the books and the rest of the archive half-heartedly. "Who knows? Rapunzel mightn't have had one since he left Stanford."

"Hello," Charlie sang under her breath.

Dean looked over quizzically. "Sorry?"

Charlie blushed, a deep red across her cheeks that melted into the colour of her hair. "I just...Stanford Era Reference?"

Dean was totally out of his depth now. Stanford Era? Like, the time Sam was in Stanford? And then...oh no. Oh God, no. He groaned. "You're not talking about those books, are you?"

Charlie, if possible, turned even redder. "No! Well, _yes_, but―"

"Charlie, seriously? I thought you were going to try and get rid of them."

"Hey, I never said that," Charlie held up her hands. "The whole Stanford Era thing is just this..._thing_...in the fandom―"

"What the hell is a 'fandom'?"

"Because you two _never _talk about it and whenever you do it's always really angsty or anything, so whenever you two _do _say something about Stanford or Jess in passing it's a really big deal and everyone loves it and sees it as integral to character development," Charlie spilled all at once.

Dean was taken aback. "Wait, seriously?"

Charlie nodded, resolute in that she would _not _blush anymore.

Dean shook his head, turning back to the spines with a little more concentration than before. "People are weird."

Charlie was silent for a bit, before turning back to her books. They moved on, but Dean could feel her tensing. Then she slammed her hand down on them and turned to Dean again. "Dean―"

"Seriously, however much fun it is to talk to you, we do need to do th―"

"_Dean_," Charlie interrupted tersely. When it seemed like he was giving his full attention, she took a deep breath. "Ok." She studied his face for a moment, hands tight, stance resolute. "How did you bring me back from the dead?"

Dean turned slowly away from the books and looked at his friend. "I, uh―"

"And_ don't _give me any crap about, like, I don't know, the Wicked Witch's power not killing me, because I talked to Dorothy and―"

"I'll tell you, Charlie," Dean said, and he winced as she drew back from the hoarseness of his tone.

"It had something to do with Sam, didn't it?" Charlie guessed. "You said that she got him as well. But he didn't die."

"Yeah, it has something to do with Sam," Dean sighed. He ran his hand over his mouth and relayed an abridged version of the story. Leaving out Kevin's death and the mark of Cain. And barely going into detail about Abaddon and Metatron.

"_Dude_," Charlie said, open mouthed. "You let an _angel _possess him? _So _uncool."

"I wasn't going to let him―"

"Die, yeah, yeah, I get it," Charlie silenced him with a wave of her hand. "But..._jeez_. No wonder he was pissed at you. And...that angel, he brought me back?"

"Yes," Dean said shortly, turning back to the same book he'd looked over three times, reading over the name on the spine without retaining any of the words. He didn't want to go over this again, he didn't _want _to relive the last year. Every year building and building, becoming worse and worse and worse. He didn't want to talk about it with Charlie, because when he thought, when he cast his mind back, _everything _was lifted in a cloud of dust and mourning. Everything _but _Charlie. Because she was so friendly or so sweet, or because she smiled more than she frowned and let him get away with his stupid nerd jokes.

She as Charlie, _Charlie_, and that's who he wanted her to stay.

She seemed to sense that he wouldn't give anymore if she pushed, so she just turned back to the books, shoulders dropping in defeat, eyes closing for the breadth of a second as she gathered her thoughts. Then she opened them, sent herself a severe talking to and fought on.

* * *

"Found anything?" Dorothy asked Sam, as he bent over his laptop and she pooled through the books already up in the library.

Sam shook his head and sighed. "Seems that the only flying monkeys, are, the, you know, monkeys from your Dad's book."

Dorothy scowled and wrenched open another tome. "Swell."

Sam leant away from his laptop and stretched up. "Are we sure that he didn't leave any more clues in the books?"

Dorothy shook her head. "I've read them, and honestly, the rest really _are _the ravings of a sad old man. Besides, Pops was good, but he wasn't _that _good. I'm not sure how you'd go about hiding the recipe for a spell in a children's book, but it has to be nigh on impossible."

"Hey, Pencil necks," Charlie announced her and Dean into the library cheerily, taking the seat next to Dorothy just as Dean took the vacant one next to Sam.

"I honestly don't think that there are _any _spells to summon them," Sam sighed, slamming his laptop shut.

"How do we lure them here, then?" Dorothy asked. "I mean, if we could somehow get them to _see _us―"

"We could post pictures of ourselves online?" Charlie suggested suddenly.

"I know Dean is kind of an exception to the rule, but do you think the monkeys would be able to use the internet?"

Dean drew back and looked at Sam. "Watch it, Sasquatch."

"We just need _one _to see, and it'll lead all the others," Dorothy sighed, rubbing a hand across her face. "They're stupid, and they'll attack anything with a heartbeat, but when they see us, they'll know it's us."

"Could they be killing those girls to send a message?" Sam asked, frowning and thinking back to the case of Susan and Rachel, and then all the other girls who'd met their ends.

Dorothy shrugged. "Doesn't matter. We need to get them here regardless. If they spend too long on earth, they might not want to leave."

Dean sighed. "Great."

"Ok, so the monkeys assumed you ran away to earth, followed you here, and now we have no way of them actually finding where you are," Sam summarised, leaning forward onto his elbows on the table, running his fingers over the back of his head. "Amazing."

"Well, I'm beat," Dean announced, standing up. Sam checked his watch and nearly fell out of his chair in a haste to get to his feet. It was nearly midnight.

"Damn bunker," Charlie complained, sighing when she saw her own watch. "How are we supposed to know what time it is?"

"You have a watch," Dorothy pointed out.

"Not helping, Dee-Dee."

"Dee-Dee?" Sam asked, grinning.

Dorothy shot him her best death glare.

"And on that note, let's call it a night," Charlie suggested, standing up as well. "I can have the room I was supposed to have, right fella's?"

"Sure," Sam agreed. "And Dorothy, you're welcome to take any room that you want."

Dorothy nodded her thanks. "I think I'll stay up a bit longer, see if there's anything I missed out on."

* * *

The next morning saw Dean brewing a jug of coffee, and Sam sitting heavily on the breakfast bar in the kitchen, slowly swirling his breakfast cereal into crumbs in his milk.

"Taste better that way, or something?" Charlie asked, bouncing into the kitchen like she hadn't just suffered through three hours of sleep.

When Sam looked up in confusion she gestured to the cereal. "You know...fruit loops easier to down in liquid form?"

Sam barked a laugh. "No, God. I just got distracted." He frowned at the mess in front of him. "Ugh. Gross."

Charlie laughed and swung into the chair next to him. "Either of you broads seen Dorothy anywhere? I couldn't find any room that looked like anyone had spent the night in it."

"No idea," Dean said, pouring him and Sam a cup of coffee and giving his brother a look as he took Sam's ruined breakfast from him, tipping the milk down the drain and placing the bowl beside the sink.

"Hey!" Sam said indignantly. "I was eating―"

"_Drinking_," Dean corrected. "You eat solids, Sam. That was disgusting."

"Maybe to you."

"No, but guys―"

Dean proffered the steaming jug of coffee, pulling out another mug. "Coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks," Charlie agreed, a little distractedly. "But guys, where is she?"

"Here," Dorothy yawned in answer, moving into the room sluggishly, her hair, which had been fixed into its meticulous neatness the day before was rough and spread across her forehead. "Sorry. I stayed up looking. Must have fallen asleep on my books."

"Your neck ok?" Sam asked, in a voice that said he could relate.

"Fine," Dorothy said, nevertheless rubbing her hand across the muscles beneath her hair.

"So, any of you Einstein's think of any way to fix this sitch?" Charlie asked, cupping her hands around the coffee mug to get her hands to warm up, the ceaseless cold of the bunker getting into the tips of her fingers.

"I might have an idea," Dorothy said. "Where was the last murder?"

"Lake Andes, South Dakota," Sam recited. "The Jenkins. Why?"

"Well, there are probably some still hanging around," Dorothy said. "If we went, and then left, perhaps we could lead them back to the bunker, and get them back to Oz like that."

"Which we still don't know how to do, by the way," Dean said.

"We can cast a befuddlement spell on them as they arrive in the bunker," Dorothy said, as if it were obvious. "You do have a lab, don't you?"

"Uh, no?" Sam asked, looking to Dean for confirmation, who nodded.

Dorothy frowned. "_Why_? How are you supposed to make spells?"

"We have some of the ingredients stored in the dungeon," Sam managed, but under Dorothy's peeved expression, saw that it wasn't close to what she meant.

"Ace," Dorothy sighed. "Really _keen _job on that one, fellas."

"I love it when she speaks 30's," Charlie whispered.

"So we split up, then," Dean said, reasonably. "Some of us will get the ingredients for the spell, and then the rest will go to lure the monkeys."

"Well, me and Dorothy have to go to Lake Andes," Charlie said. "We can go by ourselves. You still have my car, right?"

"Probably," Dean shrugged.

Charlie paled.

"He's joking, Charlie," Sam assured her. "We have it and Dorothy's bike."

"So we split up?" Charlie pressed. "Me and Dorothy, and then Holmes and Watson?"

Dorothy brightened. "Sherlock Holmes?"

Charlie looked over to the boys, conspirator to some great unknown. "Dorothy always get excited when she understands something I reference."

"You don't say," Dean looked over at the pleased Hunter, who was stealing sips out of Charlie's cup of coffee.

Sam grinned. "Awesome. Ok, so are we splitting up now, or...?" He let the sentence drag on.

"You ready, Red?" Dorothy asked.

"Sure," Charlie agreed. "We're just going to be hanging around, right? Like, we don't actually need to _do _anything, do we?"

"Make sure you see them before they see you," Dean said, worriedly.

"Shouldn't be too hard," Dorothy shrugged, standing, her boots hitting the linoleum defiantly. "I've been tracking the suckers my whole life."

"She has," Charlie confirmed, looking over to Dorothy with adoration. "It's amazing."

"Shake a leg, Chuck," Dorothy ordered Charlie, exiting the room. "I'm gonna go freshen up, and then we're outta here."

* * *

Before they left, Dorothy left them with a list of ingredients and a step by step method for creating the spell. She expressed her disappointment, again, with how they didn't have a place to actually put the whole thing together, but Charlie managed to drag her out before she hit repeat number seven.

The Winchester's climbed into the impala after Dorothy and Charlie had driven off, and before he turned the ignition, Dean turned to Sam.

"Charlie...she asked how she got back to life," Dean said, slowly. Not comfortable at _all _with telling Sam everything. Because the constant _don't, no, protect him, _was a constant song, around and around in his head. But he _had _to.

_Secrets ruin relationships!_

"Oh," Sam said. He looked down at his lap. "Huh. What did you say?"

"The truth," Dean managed, turning the key in the ignition, the car jerking to life. He looked over to the list in Sam's hand. "Got any idea where we can get all this?"

"It's not actually that complicated," Sam said. And almost just like that, it was forgotten. How deadly close they'd gotten to talking about the last year. Sam and Dean both knew that they'd have to approach it at some point but now...now was a time for just _being_. Being and forgetting.

Sam had no idea how to express how thankful he was that Dean was being so blatantly open, and Dean didn't know how to express that he found it so _difficult, _but wished that he didn't.

The impala rumbled to life and they drove along the driveway and into the air.

"First stop?"

Sam shook his head, bemused. "The supermarket."

"Seriously?"

"Oil, salt, matches," Sam listed. "Yeah, seriously."

* * *

"Ok, this is terrifying," Charlie said as they drove slowly through the town where the most recent victim had died.

"Yeah," Dorothy agreed, but for an entirely different reason. She was looking into a computer store, the blood drained from her face. "What the Hell is all of that?"

"That's, uh, Apple."

"_That's _what apples are, these days?" Dorothy demanded, flabbergasted.

"No, it's, it's like a brand," Charlie struggled to explain. "You know, Steve Jobs...ah, what am I kidding. You don't know."

"I would have thought that the future was going to be more interesting," Dorothy admitted. "I thought you'd at least have flying cars. All you do have is very advanced apples."

Charlie was caught in wordless incredulity. Then she laughed. "Well, you're not wrong."

Dorothy sighed. "I don't think I'm ever going to catch up."

"Don't worry," Charlie shrugged, and she knew that she would probably be looking way more frightened and nervous than the nonchalance she was aiming for. "I'll learn it for you."

Dorothy smiled at her friend and mused her hair. Charlie managed a laugh before focusing fully on driving, hoping that the hunter didn't think that her speech was too Sam-and-Frodo.

Charlie suddenly widened her eyes. She'd known that Dorothy would have missed out on a lot. She would have missed out on Star Wars and Star Trek, and all the other stars that had come and gone between her disappearance and reappearance. But it had never fully dawned on Charlie, that her friend would have lived in a time before Tolkien.

"Merry or Pippin?"

"Is that some sort of new slang?" Dorothy asked immediately, blinking.

Charlie blew out a breath of air, shaking her head in disbelief. "_Man_, have I got to introduce you to some real literature."

* * *

"Uh, yeah, I think so," Dean told Charlie, who was nattering away in his ear.

Dean turned to Sam, interrupting his brother out of looking through all the ingredients they'd bought. They were on the way home, and Dean hadn't hesitated on answering the phone when Charlie had called, despite the illegality. "Hey, Sam, we have the extended edition of the Lord of the Rings, right?"

"Pretty sure," Sam said, without looking up from inventory, checking twice next to the list to make sure they had everything.

"_What did Sam say_?" Charlie asked, her voice tinny and small from the phone next to his hear.

"He said yeah," Dean supplied. "Why?"

"_Dorothy's never read, nor seen Middle Earth, like, ever._"

"She was alive in the 30's, wasn't she?" Dean said, driving the car around near the back of the bunker, leading it down into the driveway leading to the Garage.

"_That's not the point. I told you, I was pretty much raised on Tolkien. I owe her as a friend and her guide to the 21st century._"

"Her guide to the 21st century," Dean echoed, and Sam looked over at that, eyebrows raised. "Alright, Charlie. We're nearly back. Can you tell Dorothy we have everything and we'll be starting the spell as soon as we can?"

"_On it_," she promised, and the phone clicked off.

Dean tucked the phone into the pocket at the front of his jeans. "Guide to the 21st century," he repeated, shaking his head, smiling fondly. "That girl."

Sam agreed with a low laugh. "Yeah. Ok, you ready?"

The car pulled up, and Dean jerked the key out, effectively shutting it all down. He pulled the key out and smiled at his brother. "'Course."

* * *

Dorothy jerked in surprise when they passed a woman wearing a pair of high waisted shorts. They weren't that revealing by most people's standards, but Charlie knew her friend was an outlier in that equation.

"Hey, hey, chill," Charlie said, bracing her hand on Dorothy's arm. "It's all good. Just a bit of skin, never hurt anybody."

Dorothy shook her head. "Sorry, it's just all so, _glaring. _You know?"

"Yeah, sure," Charlie said, nodding and smiling at the couple nearby giving them odd looks.

Charlie couldn't even think of anything to tell them if they came over to ask why her friend was acting so weird. In her case, she felt like intoxication was the way to go.

Intoxication was always the way to go. Ha. She should get that made into a T-Shirt.

"Seen anything?" Charlie asked, looking around the street.

Dorothy seemed a little overwhelmed, but she was certain when she shook her head. "Nothing, yet. But I don't think they'd come this close to the centre of town."

"If they can move through doors and windows," Charlie said. "Where would they stay?"

"Somewhere high up," Dorothy said, looking around in their immediate area for anywhere on a pedestal. "Like the castle."

"I saw a church on the map of town," Charlie suggested. "It had a bell tower. They might be nesting up there?"

Dorothy smiled and clapped her hands together, in that totally adorable 30's way of hers. "Lead the way!"

* * *

"That was _way _too close," Charlie spieled as she slammed her foot on the accelerator, tearing down the street out of town. "Way, way, way, _way _too close."

"I get it, Charlie," Dorothy silenced through clenched teeth. She was looking out the back window with iron resolve, all her good humour lost as she watched the empty sky behind them.

"There weren't supposed to be _so many_!" Charlie stammered. At least she wasn't screaming. A year ago and she would have been. Another three and she probably would have been wetting her pants.

"I know," Dorothy said, her voice still irritatingly steady and aloof.

"Well, they've definitely seen us," Charlie said, her grip on the steering wheel tightening. She held her jaw tightly. "_Definitely_."

"Yes, Charlie, thank you," Dorothy said, in an attempt to placate her friend with tough love. Too bad the act didn't work on Charlie, or she'd have had a permanent gag installed while she was in Oz. She knew Dorothy well enough to know what that meant. She was worried, _scared, _even.

"Sam was right," Charlie breathed. "They were trying to drag us out."

"Well, we didn't have any other choice," Dorothy replied tersely. She turned to Charlie. "Have you called them?"

"About what?" Charlie was verging on hysterical. She could feel angry, worried tears threaten at the corners of her eyes. _No_. She would _not _cry. She was a cold ass, badass, _hot _ass warrior queen, she was―

"The spell!"

Charlie jerked in recollection and shoved her phone out. "You call them. Quickly. Please."

Dorothy looked small as she stared at the phone. "I don't know how."

Charlie trained her car to keep with the sharp turn, wrenching the steering wheel around the bend. "Use your finger and slide the screen."

"It's a―"

"_Try_."

The telltale pop noise forced a sigh of relief from Charlie, and she looked over to see how it was going. "Now, the buttons down the bottom. Press the one that looks like a phone."

A moment of silence. "Got it."

"You see those numbers? Press the five."

Dorothy entered the number in slowly.

"Now the green receiver symbol?"

"I don't know what―"

"The _only green button_, Dorothy!" Charlie said, her speed and worry was making her snarky. She could see that Dorothy wasn't blaming her, following her instruction diligently and pressing onto the screen.

"Got it," Dorothy said. She turned to Charlie in panic. "Charlie, the screen changed...I didn't―"

"It's ok," Charlie took another calm, deep breath. "Hold it up to your ear―" she couldn't help smile "―no, no. The _other _way, silly duff."

Dorothy smiled, embarrassed and held the phone the right way up. There was a crack in between one of the rings and Charlie heard the reverberations of a man's voice, the faintest impression of his tone all she got from the driver's seat.

"Sam?" Dorothy asked. "We're coming. Are you done?"

A moment of silence and hurried words. Charlie spared a looked from the road (she really shouldn't have, they were Dean-Driving, which is to say, breaking State Law) and studied Dorothy's face, trying to get a read on what was going on.

"Hurry," Dorothy said. "The spell has to be finished for a while to congeal."

There was more chatter, before the phone call ended. Dorothy blinked in surprise and lay the phone flashing the end call screen on her lap.

"Everything ok?"

Dorothy was relaxed, but bemused. "The future is _weird_."

"C'mon, Marty," Charlie said, and the joke sounded off with her slightly panicky voice. "We've got a plane of existence to save."

* * *

The wheels on Charlie's car skidded on the asphalt as they slammed up to the entrance to the bunker.

"Got the spell?" Dorothy asked, jumping, slightly breathless out of the passenger seat.

Sam held up a bottle of the blue liquid. "Here. We weren't sure what to do after this, though."

"That's ok," Dorothy said, pulling the bottle out of his hands and making off to spread it in a circle around the entrance to the driveway. "I can." She looked up at them all sharply. "Do _not _cross this line, ok?"

Dean saw as Charlie winced at the bottle and climbed the slight incline to stand beside the brothers. "Don't worry."

"So, you found the monkeys, then?" Sam asked, moving around so that he could see Charlie and Dean, coercing them into a half circle.

Charlie nodded tiredly. "Or, they kinda found us. You were right, by the way, Sam. They are smarter than they look."

Sam frowned in confusion. "Right about what, exactly?"

"It was a trap," Charlie relayed.

"There was always the possibility."

"Not helping, Dean," Charlie frowned.

A faint scraping in the sky turned all three of their heads. At first, Dean had no idea what it was, until he started making out faint shapes, and the scraping turned into a more recognisable flapping.

"Dorothy!" Charlie called, her voice timid.

Dorothy looked up and swore colourfully. Or what Dean assumed was colourfully, considering he didn't understand half the words she used.

"Are you nearly done?" Sam asked, his voice was tight, but mostly calm. Dean itched to put his hand around his gun, but fought it off, staring with Sam and Charlie towards the massive, ever growing cloud of flying monkeys.

"Never thought I'd see the day," Dean said, voice tight.

"Well, I can't _see _anything," Sam said, frowning, and Dean realised that while he'd been looking in the same direction as them, it'd been purely sound orientated. "What the hell's going on?"

"Dean, have you been to a fairy dimension?" Dorothy asked, curious, running over, the bottle of spell empty.

"_Guys_."

"Uh, yeah. A few years ago." Dean let his expression fall neutral. It wasn't exactly the best experience of his life, to say in the least.

"Seriously, guys―"

"Well, that'd explain it," Sam nodded.

"_Guys_!"

Dorothy, Dean and Sam turned to where Charlie was avidly trying to get their attention. "Um, not to be the Nancy of the group, but can we hurry this up? Or have this conversation some other time?"

"Right," Dorothy said, moving to one of the driveway doors just as Dean did. He looked across at her, waiting for her signal. She gave it with a nod and they heaved the doors open.

Dorothy and Charlie met in the middle and Sam took over Dorothy's place as sentry. The brothers watched as the girls prepared themselves.

Dorothy's eyes were hard. "You have the key?"

Sam pulled it out of his pocket, showing it and then encasing it in the hand not holding the door.

"Dorothy," Charlie said, watching the black cloud. "That's close enough."

"Now, then," Dorothy said, and Sam and Dean slammed the doors shut. At the disappearance of the two girls, the monkeys grew more agitated, moved faster.

"You got it, Sammy?" Dean asked, standing guard and watching the now distinguishable monsters as Sam slotted the key in.

Sam wrenched the key in the lock, and kept his hand on it, ready to turn. The monkeys were so near now, so _deathly _close. The first one would be hitting Dorothy's spell any moment, any second.

"Sam! Now!"

Sam turned the key and with a grunt and all their strength, the two brothers broke open the door. With a howl of wind and wings, the monkeys flew through to Oz, it's golden, ethereal light spilling through and out, like honey, like a soft embrace, the kind of light that put the earth's sun and stars to shame.

Dean couldn't see Sam, but he realised that his brother would be able to see him. So he looked across the stream of flying apes and gave his brother that, his reassurance, a smile, warm eyes.

The monsters barraged past, the befuddlement spell did nothing to slow down their speed. They were all red eyes and sharp, jagged, severe fur. All claws and blades for wings, all howling and flapping and _screaming. _

That's what it was, a long drawn out cry emptying itself into Oz.

The last of the pack of the monkeys came through and without a second thought, Sam and Dean pushed the doors shut. Dean breathed heavily against it, the lack of the strength he'd grown so used to making itself felt as his arms strained to get the doors closed before the monkeys could realise what had gone wrong.

The doors slammed shut, a clang heralding the beginning of silence, the absence of the crack and smack of the wings, the howling, the cries.

"You right?" Sam managed, who was breathing hard himself, arms still braced on the door.

"Fine," Dean stated shortly, lungs straining to get air. "That was...really somethin', hey?"

"Really somethin' would be right," Sam said, and Dean smiled when his brother laughed.

"Should we open the door?"

"Probably."

But neither moved, just standing where they were, basking in the quiet, in the aftermath. The sky stretched above them and the earth below them, and there, together, arms nearly brushing as they both turned to lean against the door, backs resting side by side.

"So," Sam started, and Dean heard the smile in his voice. "Which of us is Holmes, and which is Watson?"

"I'm Holmes."

"No way, man. I'm the smart one."

"Sure, but you're also the side-kick."

"Side-kick? I'm gonna kick your ass."

"Whatever, Robin."

"_I _was always Batman, you were Superman."

"What, and Batman isn't just one of Superman's sidekicks?"

"I'm telling Charlie you said that."

"Don't you dare."

* * *

The popcorn was fresh and buttered, and Sam's room was properly outfitted with blankets and pillows. Sam had the best TV, and the shittiest room, but they'd had to make do. Dean had driven down with Sam to buy snacks, mostly peanut M&M's and three massive packs of microwavable popcorn, while Dorothy and Charlie went about making sure that everything was in optimal marathon position.

Dean juggled the bowl of buttered popcorn and packet of M&M's, while Sam precariously held a beer for each of them.

"Perfect," Charlie sighed, reaching her hand out and grabbing a fistful of popcorn, squishing it all into her mouth at once. She murmured incomprehensibly in delight and fell back, head resting on Dorothy's leg.

The Hunter didn't seem to mind, taking some of the chocolate that Dean offered and waiting, comfortable, on one of the two beds in Sam's room.

"Nothing that can't be cured by a massive bowl of popcorn," Dean admonished proudly.

"That and a Lord of the Rings marathon," Charlie agreed. She sat up and reached for another handful.

Sam handed out the beers and walked forward and inserted the first disk, sitting back next to Dean as the movie started to play. He glanced over at his brother when Dean wasn't watching and smiled, actually _smiled_, again.

He seemed to have been doing it a lot lately. And not all of it was forced.

"So," Dorothy said, finally curious. She'd taken to everything quite well. She'd understood Charlie when she'd more delicately gone through all the things that made her phone tick, and nodded her understanding when Dean taught her how to use the coffee machine. She drew the line at a search engine, informing Sam that she'd been able to survive without one so far, and that even if she was in this time for good, she'd be able to get by without out 'Goggle' or whatever it was. "What's this film about anyway?"

"It's kind of complicated," Charlie whispered, as Galadriel's voice spilled out of the speakers. "Don't worry, you'll pick it up."

Dean offered Sam some M&M's, flashing a smile as Sam took a healthy handful.

Sam smiled sheepishly and picked at the piled, one by one, making them last. He looked around. Charlie was sitting beside Dorothy, propped up on pillows, head resting on her friends shoulder. Dorothy was enraptured, eyes wide as she took in the screen. Sam wasn't sure how much film had changed since she'd disappeared in the mid 30's, but it probably didn't have thousands of people marching on CGI constructed fields of war.

Then he looked at Dean, and saw that his brother was at peace. His hand still hovered over the mark, but even as he watched, his hands shifted, like he wasn't thinking, like it was starting to..._not matter_. Dean had gone into relatively deep detail when it came to what Missouri had done, but Sam was still light on the particulars. But it didn't matter, not now. Because here they were, sitting side by side.

Here they were, brother and brother. Side by side, smiling and laughing and trusting.

Home and here, and together. And the world was suddenly, finally, looking up.

* * *

"Dean made a Tolkien reference once," Sam said, his voice a little slow with tiredness. The first movie had passed in a blur. Dorothy had cried unashamedly and laughed as well. She seemed to be enjoying herself, and Dean was a little jealous that she was so new to this, and could be so invested in non-reality.

But before that, he had something to take care of. "Yeah, it was really relevant as well."

"What was it?" Charlie asked, a yawn swallowing the very end of her sentence.

"The 'I can carry you' thing," Sam said, detached, eyes blurry as he watched the screen, empty packet of M&M's dangling forgotten at his fingertips.

"Wait," Charlie tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "Sam's totally the Frodo of this relationship, which makes Dean the Sam."

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly and Dean ducked his head.

Charlie grinned. "I knew it."

"Sorry," Dorothy turned their attention back to the movie. She was frowning at it, tilting her head, and her eyes were narrowed in confusion. "But are you _sure_ that those trees aren't real?"

"It's just the magic of Tolkien, sister," Charlie sighed, laying back into Sam's bed. Then she paused. "With a little assistance from my main man, PJ."

* * *

**_REFERENCES_**

_Return of the Jedi: _Chapter 6 of the Star Wars saga.

_ "You're an honest to god Fletcher Reed, you know that?" -_ Fletcher Reed was the main character in Liar, Liar (1997)

_"I'm gonna have to go all Shawshank on your ass if I have to stay in here for another week." _- Shawshank Redemption (1994) is a movie where the main character escapes from a High Security prison.

_"Well, it's either that or naming the bunker 'Stalag Luft', right?" _- Stalag Luft III was the name of the prisoner of war camp that the 'Great Escape' (1963) is based at.

_"Right. We even have Dorothy's motorbike in the garage." _- Steve McQueen's character in the Great Escape attempts to get across the Swiss Border in arguably the most famous motorcycle chase scenes of all time.

_Few more years and you'll be a dead ringer for Cousin Itt." - _Cousin Itt is a character in the Addam's family who had long hair all over his face.

_"Just, if I'm cousin Itt, you're Wednesday Addams." - _Another character from The Addam's family who was best known for her homicidal thoughts and hatred of everything and everyone.

_"On it, Juror number 8." - _Juror # 8 was the main character in 12 Angry Men, a movie/play where he convinces the other 11 jurors that the boy on trial is innocent of his father's murder, despite extreme prejudice and racism.

_"Don't be a moron, Buzz."_ - From Home Alone

_"I love you." "I know."_ - Star Wars, Leia and Han Solo

_"Me and Dorothy, and then Holmes and Watson?" _- From Sir Arthur Conan Doyles mystery's

_"C'mon, Marty." _- Marty McFly, back to the future.

_"Sam's totally the Frodo of this relationship, which makes Dean the Sam." _- Some main guys (Kripke or Singer, I think) said that Sam would be the Frodo and Dean the Sam of their relationship. So yay to that right.

_FINAL NOTES: _Hope you enjoyed it! If you prefer, this is also found on AO3 under the user neatomosquito. Please review if you have the time, thank you! And the next chapters name is: **_Running Up That Hill_**


	5. Running Up That Hill

_So... Here I am back again. Not entirely 100% happy with the pacing (or the characrerisation...or anything really) of this chapter, but enjoy nonetheless. So this is my longest chapter so far, and hopefully I'll be able to keep it up. Haha maybe. The rest of the season has a much more indepth plot outline, and the 'episodes' are more action, less inner-thoughts, mangst stuff that's been 99% of my chapters up to here._

_Researched: Towns in Kansas, commute from Sioux Falls to Kansas City, time from Lawrence to Kansas City_

_Rewatch: 9x19 Alex Annie Alexis Anne, 2x8 Crossroad Blues, 2x19 Folsom Prison Blues (for no reason. I love that episode hot damn)._

_New Tags: hellhounds, crossroads demons, Alex J., Jody Mills_

_*Please note that this includes a tiny amount of background from my other story Alex Annie Alexis Anne, but it is definitely not compulsory reading lol_

* * *

"Please allow me to introduce myself

I'm a man of wealth and taste

I've been around for a long, long year

stole many a man's soul and faith."

-_Sympathy for the Devil_, The Rolling Stones

* * *

The holiday had been Jody's idea, but Alex hadn't fought her on it. They'd hardly been anywhere but Sioux Falls ever since the adoption papers had been signed and Alex could do with stretching her legs. Especially after the catastrophe that had been her going to the local high school.

Alex had her arms crossed against her chest as Jody drove them across the state to Kansas City, where she was attending a conference and then taking some annual leave. It was dark, they'd had to start late because of Alex's crapfest at the high school. Jody wasn't mad. Jody wasn't mad about _any _of it.

It was almost unnerving.

Jody looked across at her and sighed, reaching over and squeezing her knee. "Hey, Kiddo. It's alright. It wasn't your fault."

"I know," Alex said, but Jody didn't look convinced.

"Seriously, Alex," Jody said, and she looked at Alex a little harder now. "Don't you _dare _beat yourself up about this."

"I'm _fine_, Jody," Alex snapped, and immediately wished that she hadn't. Because this was Jody, who had taken her in and forgiven her, for _everything_. This was Jody, who she'd _hated_, and who she was beginning to love. This was Jody, who could read her like a book. And gotten exactly the response she was worried about.

"Look," Jody started, and Alex could sense how carefully she was choosing each word. "You don't have to talk about it to me, if you don't want. But you _can't _hold onto it forever. You'll kill yourself."

Alex swallowed at Jody's severe tone, but didn't answer.

Silence lapsed, and Alex immediately wished that Jody would play music from the radio, or hand her a book, or relax her shoulders...or _something_. The silence was unnerving, pressuring. Of course, Alex had dealt with silence before. Most of her life had been too loud, and the brief patches of relief were welcome. But not like this, not..._ugh_. Everything was so _complicated_.

"I..." Alex started, and she looked down. She knew that if she started speaking, Jody would look across at her, and there'd be compassion and solace and friendship, and maybe even that small, warm smile that she stored away to remember when things got tough. "I just _really fucking _tried, this time."

Alex could hear Jody shuffling in her seat. "I know, honey."

"And that boy, he was asking for it," Alex's fists clenched hard as she remembered the douchebag's taunts. "He was the _biggest _dick, _ever_, and I just..." She clenched her jaw. "I _hate _bullies."

"You were defending yourself," Jody said. "It's not the schools fault that they―"

"No, I wasn't," Alex said, finally looking up and shaking her head. "Not me. Some girl he wouldn't stop harassing. She kept asking him to leave her alone. I think she was new as well, and, I just..." Alex could feel her anger beginning to heat up again. Just because she'd refused to see a psychiatrist didn't mean she wasn't starting to realise things. Thing about her mother and her brothers. "If someone wants to be left alone, they should be _left alone._"

Jody placed a comforting hand on her knee. "Alex, honey, honestly, it's _ok_. It's _his _fault. I know you won't want me to, but I _could _go and talk to the school about it―"

"No," Alex said quickly.

Jody smiled wryly. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

Alex settled back into her seat and looked, slightly lighter of worry, out of the front window. The front lights picked up the road in flashes of the white lines running beside the car on the road. It burst in rhythmic jolts, white and then black, and then white and then jagged white. Like a symphony, or a music piece.

A long drawn out howl jolted her upright. She stared out the window and then looked quickly to Jody, who was frowning as she looked around.

"Coyote?" Jody guessed.

Alex shook her head, on the very edge of her seat now. The howl had been _so close. _"Didn't sound like one."

The howl echoed again, and the hairs on the back of Alex's hair stood up as it sounded like it was coming from _right beside _them, even as the car pushed liberally down the highway.

"_Damn_," Jody swore and Alex's eyes were drawn to the speedometer as either consciously or not, the pace sped up.

And then, looking out the window, Alex saw a disruption amongst the bounce of white and white and black and white.

"Jody," she whispered, and then cleared her throat. "_Jody_! Stop!"

Without thinking, Jody slammed the breaks on and the car halted to a jerking stop.

Before it had fully come to rest Alex was bouncing out of her seat, seatbelt swinging back into place, car door forced outward as she pushed onto the road. She barely comprehended as Jody called out after her, just sprinted to where she'd seen the...the..._oh god._

"Alex!"

Alex didn't turn back to Jody as she knelt beside the mutilated corpse. She just sat by it, eyes wide, as she took in the claw marks and the wide, unseeing eyes. The whites reflected in the beams of the parked car, the glisten on the rest of the body cut off as Jody scrambled beside her.

The cop pressed a hand to her mouth and then her other one firm on Alex's shoulder.

"He's..."

"Call the police," Jody said, and her voice was level, her demeanour professional.

"What―"

"A bear attack," Jody said quickly. "We saw a bear, and then we saw the body. Do you understand?"

Alex nodded slowly.

"_Alex_! What are you going to tell the police?"

"That I saw a bear, and then saw a body," Alex said. She was slow, and the blood was too much to handle, too much like the bodies she'd been forced to step over after she led them to her family, but she could _handle_ this. Goddamn it, she _would _handle this.

She took a deep breath and pulled out her phone. Her fingers still shook as she pressed in the correct numbers.

"_Hello? 911, what is your emergency?_"

"There was a bear attack," Alex said simply. "There's a dead body."

She had no idea what was going on, she had no idea why she needed to lie, why she couldn't tell what she had actually heard. Some of her confusion was overridden, when she heard Jody speak into her phone.

"Sam? Hey. I think we've found something a little more in your ball park. Call me back."

* * *

Contacting Crowley had been Sam's idea, but Dean hadn't fought him on it. Sam expressed doubts over whether Crowley was just going to let them go, just like that, after keeping Sam's soul safe in the depths of Hell. Sam admitted he didn't remember much about hell, just the odd flash of comfort and the temporary vision of Crowley's incredulous face.

"We gotta know," Sam had said simply. "What if he comes to claim something when we need it least?"

Dean wasn't sure when 'need it least' would be, but he agreed with Sam's sentiment. After years of knowing next to nothing of the grand plan, it'd be good to see where all the aces lay for once.

The only problem was, Crowley was a tricky son of a bitch. He probably heard them summoning him, he probably felt that tug forcing him to where they were. But he didn't follow through with it, for whatever reason.

After the first 20 minutes, Dean hoped he was being tortured in someone else's dungeon.

After the first 40, he hoped that the angels had gotten him.

After the first hour, he hoped that Crowley was up to his neck in practical forms and paperwork, simmering in his own creation.

"Dude, seriously, I don't think he's coming," Dean said finally, pushing himself off the ground.

Sam sighed and followed him. "Yeah. Probably knew it, as well. Not for nothing that there's been next to no demon activity in the past two weeks."

At first, Dean had enjoyed the holiday. All they'd done between Charlie and Dorothy and now had been the odd salt and burn in the town over and fed Sam's curiosity about the key. Dorothy had left it with them when she and Charlie had left to go and find out how the Monkey's had gotten to earth from this end. They needed to close the portal, or whatever it was, and Dorothy seemed to think that it would be easier from the end they arrived in rather than where they came from.

The last time Charlie called, she whispered, conspiring with Dean, about Dorothy, a blue checked dress and Comic Con.

Dean knew that Charlie had missed earth as well. As much as she loved adventure, it was family that grounded her, inspired her. It was love and trust and friendship and laughter. She couldn't live without those things, not forever.

And Dean idly suspected that she _really _wanted to meet Cas.

"You heard from Charlie?" Dean asked, as they walked, defeated, out of the dungeon and up to the uppermost level of the bunker.

"No, nothing, but they'll be fine," Sam said, adding the last bit at the drop on Dean's face. "They're smart, Dean. They'll find the portal."

There was a beep on Sam's phone on the library table, and the two went over to it curiously. Because if you knew Sam's number, then you must know something about something. Just enough to make your call special, just enough to garner you oddly attuned attention.

"It's from Jody," Sam stated, flipping it open with surprise and listening to the voicemail.

"Anything?" Dean asked.

Sam frowned. "Just that she thinks she's found something."

"Where is she?"

"Dunno," Sam said, a little distractedly, pressing the call back button and holding the phone over his ear. "Jody, hey!"

Dean watched his brother for any indication of what Jody might have found. Any flinch or clench, any surprise or denial..._anything _would give him something to narrow down their infinite list.

Sam's eyes widened. "_What_?"

Dean inclined his head in question toward Sam and his brother mouthed 'Our Thing' before pressing the phone back to his ear.

Dean rolled his eyes. _Duh_.

"Shit, is Alex ok?"

"Sam," Dean said irritably, his voice low.

Sam shot him an absent, irritated look and bent back to the phone. "Damn it, Jody. How close did it get?"

"Seriously, Sam," Dean said, and his tone only deepened into annoyance. "What're we dealing with here?"

Sam finally seemed to understand why Dean was distracting him while he spoke. His eyes widened as he grasped the concept, and then he met Dean's eyes. There was a low thrum in his gaze, a mellow sadness.

A monster entrapped in some sort of tragedy then.

Didn't narrow the list down by much.

"Hell hound."

Dean swallowed a flinch. _Oh_.

* * *

The town wasn't far from the bunker, so they started early the next morning, rising before dawn and moving about like zombies as they packed their gear and stowed it above the fake bottom of the boot of the impala.

"How the hell do we know that the hounds are still even there?" Dean asked suddenly, as they hit the hour mark and steered passed another tiny town.

Sam shrugged. "Most Crossroads demons make more than one deal, right? I mean, they normally con a group of people at once."

Dean wasn't convinced. "I suppose."

"We'll see," Sam said easily, slipping back into the seat and yawning. "Better safe than sorry, right?"

Dean nodded his agreement. "Right."

* * *

Jody was out the front of the motel to meet them when the car pulled into the parking lot. She smiled and waved at them as they climbed out of the impala and walked over.

Sam smiled and bent to hug her. "Hey, Jody."

She pulled away and returned the greeting. "Hiya, Sam."

"Mornin', Jody." Dean smiled, hugging her as well.

She drew back and Sam decided business could wait, for a little while at least. "How have things been?"

"Good," Jody said, nodding, staring off to the side a little as she relived all that had happened between her meeting them with Alex and calling them to help her out with a case. "Hard, but good."

"How's Annie?" Dean asked, and Sam nodded in agreement, looking to the motel room he assumed was theirs.

"Alex," Jody corrected. "And she's fine. I mean, as fine as can be expected."

"Of course," Sam said. "And where were you guys going, anyway?"

Jody sighed and smiled tightly. "Holiday in Kansas City. I had a police thing, and was gonna take some time off so Alex could catch a break. Didn't think..." Jody sighed again and her smile dropped.

"Yeah, that sucks," Dean consoled. She flashed a smile in thanks.

"You're looking better, Dean," Jody noticed.

Dean coughed awkwardly and Sam filled in the blanks. "Yeah, we're just working through some stuff. And...uh, stuff."

That got a smile out of the tired sheriff. "Right. Don't let anyone tell you that you don't have a way with words, Sam."

Sam smiled, but then turned serious as he brought back the real reason that they were all standing outside a motel early in the morning. "So you're thinking Hell Hound?"

"I'm _knowing _Hell Hound," Jody said, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "Couldn't see the thing, and the guy was the owner to this oil rig in the middle east. And, get this―"

"He bought it 10 years ago?" Dean guessed.

Jody smiled. "_Inherited _it 10 years ago."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Wow." Definitely a soul collection then. "Do we know for sure that there are still people waiting to be collected?"

Jody shuffled and pulled out a scrappy white piece of paper. "After Alex went to sleep I did some digging. There are some people I have my eye on, but nothing concrete yet."

"Told you," Sam muttered to Dean.

"Yeah, thanks Sam," Dean rolled his eyes. "So, we'll take it from here if you and Alex want to head off to Kansas City."

Jody arched an eyebrow. "Really? You're gonna sideline me on this one? And I can't see Alex backing down either."

"I get that she's a good kid, but do you really think she _should _be seeing this?" Sam asked, his voice was a little embarrassingly earnest. Because, God, she was _16. _She was just a _child_. And she didn't need this, didn't need the world to start seeming darker than it already was. She'd already been through so much, suffered through so much. She _didn't need this_.

Jody looked tense. "She shouldn't, no. But I take her away and she'll _crawl _back. At least this way I can keep an eye on her."

Hero's complex. Sam clenched his jaw and looked down to the ground, avoiding Jody's worried expression.

When Dean laughed, it was bitter. "Yeah, we knew someone like that once. Wouldn't stay put anywhere for three seconds, not if it meant staying out of the field."

Sam ensured that his response was entirely internal as he deliberated on what Dean had said. Jo was a sore spot, a _very _sore spot, for his brother. He hadn't mentioned her to any sort of extent since Osiris had used her against them nearly three years ago. When her ghost had been forced to try and kill Dean.

"Right, well, she should be up if you wanna get a room and then come to our room to run over the logistics," Jody said, musing her hair as she stretched. "Take your time. I'll need at least three coffee's before I have to deal with you two again."

Sam laughed and saw Dean smile. Jody had always been closer to Sam than she had been to Dean, but Sam knew Dean respected her and wished only for the best for her and knew that she felt the same for him.

"C'mon," Sam said to Dean, nodding to the motel reception with a nod of his head. "See ya, Jody."

* * *

"Now, considering the fact that it's officially a bear attack," Jody said, nursing a coffee cup as Dean and Sam settled into the seats of the table in her motel room. Alex was sitting on her bed, the covers messed about and her hair was a mess, but she was utterly alert as she took in the brothers and Jody. "You pretending to be FBI agents would definitely be out of the question."

"We could be journalists," Sam suggested, and he caught Dean's eye. The Last time they'd dealt with hell hounds, they'd just come clean about it, but if they wanted coverage for interviewing the police and family members, they were going to need something a little more substantial. Not to mention, you got more doors slammed in your face with the truth than you did with blatant lies.

Jody shook her head. "It's fine. Just leave it to me. You know, because me looking into it would technically _not _be breaking the law."

Dean privately thought that faking witness to something was a pretty big legality issue, but didn't press it. He doubted Jody would get a criminal record for changing hers and Alex's story from bear attack to the attack dogs from hell. Institutionalized, maybe, named unfit for service, probably, but other than that...

"Can I come?"

"No, that'll be a little obviously weird," Jody answered Alex, who huffed and crossed her arms. Jody looked a little less chipper when she saw Alex's obvious distress. "Sam needs help researching though."

"And interviewing people," Sam added.

"So the journalist thing is a go, then?" Dean asked. "Awesome. I think I still have my pretentious jacket thing from that last time."

"Yeah, I still have my jumper."

"What, so I'll be some sort of intern?" Alex asked.

"Sure, you could pass as 18, couldn't you?" Dean squinted his eyes and studied Alex, who nodded.

"Sure."

"Awesome," Dean said. "Ok, who was the first person on your list?"

"Darla Higgins," Jody related, reading off her scrap of white paper. "Made it to exec of the local accounting firm at 25. 10 years ago."

"Awesome," Dean said again, this time with a heaved sigh. "Where does she live?"

"Should we split up?" Sam asked. "Cover more ground."

"You take Missy Bender―" Dean ignored Sam's bemused expression "―and Darla. Who else is there, Jody?"

Jody handed him the list, and nodded when Dean made a face at the number of people they'd have to sort through. "Awesome."

"Can you _please _stop saying that?" Alex asked finally, looking a little peeved that Dean had dumped her on his brother.

Dean stood up and smiled. "No."

* * *

"Sammy, _crossroads _demon," Dean stressed, as they got changed in their hotel room. "This could be our key to finding Crowley."

Sam looked like he was mulling over some internal debate, but Dean wouldn't let him simmer for long enough to make the wrong decision. They needed to see Crowley, they needed to figure out if the bastard had done anything unforeseen to Sam's soul or whether he was going to demand anything for it, and they needed to learn it early.

And then, they'd get onto Cas. Or Hannah, if their friend was too busy managing the infinite matters of Heaven.

"Seriously, man, this is it," Dean said. "This is exactly what we need. If we can't get any info out of her―"

"Then she could lead us to him," Sam finished. "Yeah, I get it."

"If it _is _a she," Dean amended. "When was the last time we had a hot chick tempting us with soul selling?"

"Not exactly something I keep track of, Dean."

"Sure it is."

Sam's lips quirked. "Snooki."

Dean burst out laughing. "Oh yeah, I remember that." Then he sobered as he remembered the rest of that stanza. Magnussen and the First Blade, Sam tortured in front of him, the _surge _he felt when he held the knife, complicated itself into a messy bundle. Dean coughed and took a second to regain himself. The mark was impotent, Missouri knew what she was doing. It was fine, _he _was fine. He didn't have to worry, not for another few months.

Sam must have sensed where Dean's mind was, because he shot his brother a small smile. "Let's kick it in the ass, yeah?"

Dean managed to mask over his regret and fear and sadness as best as he could. "C'mon, Eileen."

Sam rolled his eyes but Dean felt something pang in his chest as his little brother followed him dutifully out of the room, the door clicking shut behind them, room unsoiled except for their bags, one on either bed.

* * *

Roger Rogers had possibly the most unfortunate name in all existence. Well, to Dean he did anyway. That unfortunate name was evened out by his massive home and young, beautiful wife, who opened the door for him when he knocked.

"Hey, I'm Dean Springsteen, journalist for the News Daily Business Bulletin. Mind if I speak to your husband?"

The woman had seemed taken aback, but welcoming as she accepted him into her home. She led him to a living room adorned with a Persian rug and expensive looking tapestry's, along with a humbly burning fire in the middle of the far wall.

"I'll just go find Roger," the woman said warmly, smiling at Dean as she disappeared into the back of the house. He hoped she actually _was _going to find her husband, because if he wasn't mistaken, and he usually wasn't on this subject matter, this was how porn started.

"Mr. Springsteen!" Rogers announced himself with a pretentious jacket that rivalled Dean's and a boisterous smile. "What can I do for you?"

Dean stood to greet him and shook the man's hand, smiling generously and taking the seat opposite Roger as he sat down. "It's an honour to meet you, Mr. Rogers, I've heard so much about you."

"Ah, call me Roger," the man said in good humour. "Now, what are these questions? You're lucky you got me on a cancelled day. Was going to take the day off to go fishing before the weather came in."

Dean was pretty sure that blue skies didn't constitute cancelling a fishing trip, but he played along. "Sure thing Mr. Rogers. Now, I was just wondering, how _did _you become so known and successful in the business world?"

Dean wasn't sure if there _was _a business world, nor if Rogers was even that widely recognized within it, but pampering the ego always seemed to work and if his smirk was anything to go by, Dean had hit the jackpot.

"One day, I got out of bed and realised I wanted to be more," Roger sighed. "You know? Just wanted to do a little more with my life."

"And your rise to fame, that was 10 years ago, right?"

"Right," Rogers nodded. "That was when I just..._decided_. It was a beautiful day. Honestly, it really was."

"I don't doubt it," Dean said, forcing a smile. "And now, did you meet anyone to help you get to where you are?"

"Other than my wife?" Roger boomed a laugh. Like the idea of anyone helping him was ridiculous. The smile dripped off Dean's face and he just aimed to look a little less uncomfortable. It took a certain sort of douchebag to take responsibility for something he sold his soul for. Then again, he mightn't have known that he had sold his soul. Not everyone did.

But something about the way the man sat forced Dean to nearly _over _consider the other option. He was so smarmy, so well dressed, so arrogant. The sort of personality that grated incessantly on Dean.

Despite that, he wasn't ready to spill his secrets yet. Either he hadn't started hallucinating, or had never sold his soul in the first place. Either way, there were probably people closer to the veil than he who they could waste their time on.

"Well, thanks for that," Dean said, standing up quickly and not bothering with the forced smile.

"Leaving? But you only just got here!"

"I've got everything I need," Dean assured him, almost absently. "Don't worry."

Rogers leapt up to see him out the front door, struggling to keep up as Dean walked briskly to the front door. "So, uh, when can I expect the article?"

Dean shrugged. "Week or so."

Rogers smiled again, "All good, I expect?"

Dean opened the door himself and turned to Rogers with an obviously fake smile. "Should be."

He stepped outside and Rogers bid him a generous farewell, before the door was closed and Dean pulled out his phone. "Sammy?"

"_Dean? Anyone shot Roger Rabbit?_"

"Hilarious," Dean stated. " I don't think he's staring down the gun. Or not yet, at least. He was confident and definitely not hunkering down for the third world war."

"_You didn't_," Sam pointed out, and Dean knew the kid well enough to imagine the uncomfortable look Sam would be fighting at the moment.

"Well, I'm superman, aren't I?" Dean said easily. It was simple to keep his voice light and teasing over the phone. Probably the only reason that he ever called anyone at all was because it made his life of lies a lot easier. "Anyway, Sammy, you got anything?"

Sam snorted. "_No. Darla's secretary has kept Alex and I waiting for ages. You could probably come down, if you wanted._"

"Sure," Dean said. "Let's hope she's more terrified than Rogers. And I mean that in the nicest way possible."

"_Of course you do,_" Sam said, with an audible eye roll. "_Will you call Jody_? _She's been with the coroner all day_."

"I'll call her in the car."

"_You'll crash_."

Dean snorted. "I'd like to see that. Later, Sammy."

* * *

Alex must've been getting annoyed by now, or bored, or irritated by the tapping of Sam's shoe, but she looked complacent. Just staring as the workers bustled passed, smiling when someone smiled at her and dragging a length of hair around her finger.

Any attempt at conversation had gotten Sam monosyllabic answers, so he gave up on that one pretty quickly, comforting himself with that if _she _could stand nonconversation, then he, a much older, much more world weary man, should be able to stand it as well.

It's just...they'd been waiting for a _really _long time.

Sam cleared his throat. "So Jody tells me that you're heading to Kansas City?"

Alex nodded. Her voice wasn't dismissive in its tone, just its content. "Yeah." It was better than a murmur of agreement, so Sam took it as a good sign.

"Dean and I were born near there, you know," Sam said, casual. "Lawrence. Heard of it?"

"Lived there for a while," Alex said, and despite Sam wincing at treading on a sore subject, he gave himself the small victory that he'd managed to get 6 syllables out of her. 7 if he counted 'lived' as two. Which he totally did. Sort of.

"Dean should be coming down soon," Sam said, awkwardly changing the topic of the conversation.

"Huh," Alex responded, absent again.

Sam decided to let it go. If she wanted to talk to him, she would have talked to him. There were a few things Sam believed wholeheartedly in. One of them was protection of those who couldn't, or didn't, protect themselves, another was the inherent goodness of humanity, and the third was his never ending crusade for _choice_. The difference between Free Will and forced decisions.

So if Alex didn't want to talk, they weren't going to talk. Simple as that.

"Sorry to interrupt," Darla's secretary, obviously not interrupting anything. "But there's a man here who says he's a colleague of yours? Dean Springsteen?"

"Springsteen?" Alex asked, eyebrow arched.

"Uh, yes," the secretary frowned. He looked to Sam, who nodded.

"Yeah, he's my partner."

The secretary gave a breath of relief and hurried off to where he'd kept Dean waiting. Sam could only imagine Dean scowling, crossing his arms over his chest and giving irritated huffs every time someone asked if he was being taken care of.

"I thought I was your partner," Alex stated, suddenly talkative.

"You're my intern," Sam corrected good naturedly. "That means coffee runs and something to put on your CV at the end."

Alex wrinkled up her nose. "Sounds dumb."

"I'm telling Dean you said that," Sam told her seriously. "He was an intern once. Fake, like you. He loved it."

Alex actually cracked a smile at that. "What about you?"

"I was more a lurker," Sam sighed, remembering the Film Set case they'd taken seven years ago. "I was surprised they didn't kick me out."

"You have this innocent look about you," Alex said, scrutinising Sam. "They wouldn't have kicked you out."

Sam frowned. "Thanks?"

"It wasn't really a compliment," Alex informed him.

"Hey kids," Dean announced himself and sat next to Alex, so that she was in the middle of them. "Gotten anywhere?"

"We've been waiting for nearly half an hour," Alex said dejectedly. "And Sam won't let me play on his phone."

"I told you, there's no games on it."

"I could _download _some."

Sam sighed and handed his phone over. "Fine, but don't like, stuff up the settings."

Dean watched them with raised eyebrows. "It's like working with children."

"I am actually a child," Alex stated briskly, eyes downcast towards the phone, fingers moving quickly over the buttons on the screen. "And Sam's practically a child."

"I'm 31."

"So?"

Before Sam could protest, and tell Dean to shut up and stop laughing, the secretary from before interrupted.

"Sorry about the wait, Darla will see you now."

* * *

Alex could only watch as she saw what the brothers do best. They pretty much ignored her, leaving her to herself in the chair at the back of the room, where she pretended to take down notes and scrutinise what Dean and Sam were doing.

Alex cast her eyes down to the paper Sam had given her and smiled to herself when she saw the ingredients for Mars Bar slice written out in a shopping list. She caught Darla giving her a curious look, so to save her the trouble of acknowledging it, she scribbled down 'Ben and Jerry's' as well.

Underlining it every so often to keep up appearances.

"So," Dean said. "10 years. That's a pretty impressive effort."

Darla smiled. She was attractive, in that middle aged, corporate woman way, with hair styled into a perfect bun, and just the right amount of eye makeup to make her eyes pop, but then also for it to not look like she was trying too hard. She had the look down, the 21st century woman, and despite the fact that she'd gotten to where she was through questionable means, Alex had to salute her on her wardrobe choice. "Thank you! Yes, I can't believe how fast this decade has flown."

Sam took to the floor now. Alex could sense, when he asked his question, that with his soul-searching puppy dog eyes, he was more equipped to handling the tougher, more delicate areas of investigation. "So, uh, how do you respond to allegations that you got a lot of _help_ getting to where you are?"

Darla stiffened slightly, but Alex could tell she'd been asked this question hundreds of times before. "I think that if a woman rising to power is so foreign that it must be unethical, then America and the rest of the world has a lot to answer for."

_Good answer_, Alex grinned, underlining the Mars Bars on her list of things she was going to buy for ingredients for the slice.

But Sam wouldn't be swayed. "There have been rumours, and you must understand, that with how _quickly _you rose through the ranks..." he let himself trail off, the blanks filling themselves with an apologetic wave of his hand.

Darla sighed. "Look. Ok, ten years ago, I was nothing. But then, one day, I caught a break. Isn't that the American dream?"

Alex saw Dean smile, but it was a sour ghost of the grin he'd given when she'd bickered with Sam waiting to be let in. "Just, that, the good ole' American dream isn't all that delivering in most cases."

Darla's smile turned forced and she conceded his point. "Yes, that's true. Very true. That in cases like mine, I become the exception."

Alex underlined 'Mars Bars' for a third time when Darla's eyes turned about the room, trying to settle on hers.

Dean shot Sam a glance, and Alex understood what it meant. In most circles, it probably would have meant 'you've got to be shitting me', but considering their circumstances, it was more along the lines of 'sold her soul, no two ways about it'.

"Let's talk about Hell," Dean said finally.

Darla's genuine confusion wasn't lost on any three of them. "Hell? Why?"

"Do you believe in Hell, Ms. Higgins?"

Darla frowned. "I don't understand―"

"Just answer the question," Alex rolled her eyes, calling up from the back.

The Winchester's turned to give her a double bitch face, which she ignored, entrapping the entire attention of Darla Higgins.

"I, uh, yes. Yes, I believe in Hell."

"So you believe in Heaven?" Dean asked. Sam shifted uncomfortably. It was a realistic cause and affect question, but it had no real end. Ask about Hell and you'd ask about Heaven. Perhaps they'd use the information to paint her as a bible thumping catholic asshole, or they'd use the morals of the church to paint her in a more positive light. _She could NEVER take power, she's a CHRISTIAN!_

Alex nearly snorted. Yeah, right.

Darla nodded slowly. "Yes, I believe in heaven."

"Demons? Angels? What about them?" Dean asked. Alex found some sort of peace in the lilt and balance of their questions. Dean was hard firing and short, Sam was genuine and comforting. Alex had to say, however alike they were, they complimented each other well.

Darla nodded again, fingers tapping, agitated, on her desk. However she thought this interview would go, this wasn't it. "Well, to believe in Hell and Heaven is to believe in Gabriel and Lucifer, so yes."

"Lucifer wasn't actually a demon," Sam informed her.

Darla looked confused and Dean raised an eyebrow to his brother, who started fiddling with the edge of the desk absently.

Dean cleared his throat. "Right. Now, Darla. One more question―"

But before he could, she drew away suddenly, gasping, heaving her breath through her lungs. "_No_!"

"Ms. Higgins?" Sam asked, concerned, leaping to his feet and preparing to go around the table. "Is there something wrong?"

Darla pointed at Alex with a shaking finger. "What is _wrong _with her _face_!"

Alex scowled and rubbed a hand along her jaw. Jesus. She'd started moisturising and everything.

Dean seemed to understand the situation a little better, getting quickly to his feet and waving a hand in front of Darla's stricken face. "Darla! Snap out of it! It's not real!"

The woman, eyes wide with terror, looked up at Dean's comforting abruptness. Order, humans responded well to order and to people who took charge. There were leaders and there were sheep in this world, and everyone had a turn at playing both.

It only took which one you _preferred _playing to see where you ended up.

Darla sucked in a deep breath of air and pushed her hands desperately over her eyes. Sam gingerly went over to her and placed a hand on her back.

"Darla," he said, starting softly.

Alex couldn't help feel relieved when Dean just came out and spat it out. There was no easy way to tell someone that they were damned to an eternity in Hell. No way at all.

"You sold your soul, Darla," Dean stated shortly, eyeing her intensely, checking for any responses, checking to see what she did next. "You're on a Highway that only goes down, my friend."

It would have been the sort of thing that Alex would laugh at, was the tone not so serious and the woman not quivering so much. When she looked up, she stared first at Alex, as if trying to ensure that she couldn't see her hallucination anymore. Alex felt a pang in her chest and screwed her hands tightly into fists to stop herself reaching across and comforting the executive.

"My _soul_?" Darla demanded, pushing Sam's hands off her back and standing up tall, a little breathless. "You _insane _bastards―"

"10 years ago, someone came, told you they could solve all your problems..." Dean waved his hand. "Want me to continue?"

"I..." She swallowed. "Yes, a woman. She told me...she told me I could get the job, if I just..._worked _at it! She wasn't the _devil_!"

"No, but she was a demon," Sam said, and the softness and empathy of his tone clashes headily with Dean's. "And she did stake a claim on your soul. I'm sorry, Darla."

She closed her eyes and breathed tightly. Alex hoped she wasn't about to have a panic attack, because it didn't look like either of the brothers would be entirely equipped to handle that, and she certainly had no idea what to do. It was times like these that she wished Jody were here. Jody always knew what to do when _Alex _was losing grip with reality or happiness or whatever.

There was still the crappiness, but Jody managed to hold it at bay.

"Did you kiss her?" Dean asked, and despite Alex fully believing that was the kind of thing you could only ask seriously in a Soap Opera, he managed it pretty efficiently.

Sam watched, stricken, and caught eyes with Alex, as she nodded.

* * *

Dean had watched as Sam had asked Darla three things. Back in her home, surrounded by Goofer dust, she recited it off dutifully, wincing every now and again. Dean didn't ask whether it was the facial hallucinations, or the sounds of the hounds barking in the distance.

The name? "Stacy. Stacy Robinson." She said that she _might _still be around, but whenever Darla was out of the office, she was making trips to Kansas City or New York, As small as the town was, it wasn't small enough for her.

What she'd looked like? "Red hair, white. Blue eyes, a tattoo on her fingers."

Where she'd met her? "Johnson's Bar. Main street."

How they'd managed to con Alex into standing guard over the Flight Risk was a mystery all in itself. Sam just took her off to the side when it looked like she was going to refuse, and she came back with a huff, handing the list she'd made pretending to be intern to Sam, who raised his eyebrows at it.

He grinned as he stuffed it into his pocket.

"So, to the bar then?" Dean clarified as they made their way down the stairs of Darla's massive home towards where the Impala was parked.

Sam nodded. "Might as well check it out. Town this size, guys probably been there from the start."

"We could try and summon her," Dean figured.

"Well, for one, no demon in their right mind is going to make any deals with us," Sam said, jaw tight. "Not anymore. And we don't know it's name to make a different sort of summoning. Which, thanks to Crowley, we know that it doesn't even have to come to."

"It could just be because Crowley's all juiced up now he's king of hell," Dean said, scratching the back of his head. "But whatever. Never thought I'd rue the day demons wouldn't come try find me."

Sam snorted in agreement. "Yeah, I'm with you on that one."

* * *

"Oh yeah, Stacy," The bartender nodded, standing across from them, adorned head to toe in the stereotype. Dean admired the Zeppelin tattoo on his arm and number plate on the back of his neck that probably had some sort of material value. He placed down the glass he'd been polishing and crossed his arms. "I remember her. All legs, right?"

Dean grinned and Sam shared an uncomfortable glance with his brother. "Um, yeah. Right."

The bartender dropped the smirk. "She's not in trouble, is she?"

"No, no, of course not," Dean assured him. "Have you seen her, recently?"

"Stacy?" the man asked. "Course. She never left."

Dean felt his blood cool, his heart pick up its pace. He forced himself to calm down and smiled uncomfortably at the man. "Right. Of course. Do you know where we could find her?"

"Gee, officer, I dunno if she'd be ok with me―"

"This is a serious investigation," Sam snapped. "We don't have time for this. Either you know where she is, or we leave."

"It's a small town," the bartender was icy. "We look out for our own, boy."

"Tell us," Dean ordered, and there was no room for negotiation in his voice. All the good nature they'd brought was lost, and an iciness spread across the room, hovering in the air like the wisps of mist in the crisp winter mornings.

"Well, she ain't Stacy _Robinson _anymore, is she?" The begrudging tone of the tender didn't give, but his arms slipped a little looser as he gave in. "She got nice and married."

"_Married_?" Sam asked, before he could help himself.

Dean shared another glance with his brother, this one a lot more worried.

"Yeah, tha's right," the bartender nodded. "Good ole' Roger Rogers. Been good to her, all these years."

Dean's mouth was dry when he asked the last question. "How long have they been married?"

The bartender gave a gapped grin. "Why, you comin' in with 'Ms. Robinson'...they been married about ten year. In fact, ten years tomorrow. The Rogers and I, we keep in touch. Stacy's always been real good to me."

* * *

"He's not picking up the phone," Dean snapped, pulling his hand back to the wheel as he slapped his phone shut on his knee.

Sam didn't bother with the 'he's probably fine', considering he very much probably wasn't.

Sam felt his phone vibrate on his leg and pulled it out, checking the caller ID before he answered. "Jody! Hi. You got anything for us?"

"_Nothing,_" Jody replied, her sigh echoing through the cell. "_How's Alex_?"

"Fine," Sam said, and judged it best not to let Jody know her adopted daughter was watching guard over someone toeing the edge of Hell. "We think we've found the crossroads demon."

"_It was part of society_?" Jody asked, and her tone was suspicious enough that Sam wondered what exactly she'd been getting up to in the time away from he and Dean. "_That's gotta be off, right_?"

"Right," Sam agreed tersely, looking across to Dean, who's jaw was intimately held tight and his eyes were a mixture of panic and worry. They hadn't really spoken about it, but if the demon had seen Dean, she'd know who he was. Where both he _and _Sam were. Sam had no idea what they were driving into. All he did know was that there wasn't going to be anything good when they came out the other side.

"_Sam_?"

Sam forced himself to pay due attention to the conversation he was having, even as the chimney of the massive house started to come into view over the horizon. "Sorry, Jody, what was that?"

"_You make sure you get Alex somewhere safe before you go after it, right_?"

Sam was relieved he'd had the forethought to leave Alex behind. Although, at the time it had more to do with leaving Darla a companion and not making too much of a scene entering a licensed premises. "Yeah, yeah. She's safe, Jody."

"_Ok, good_."

"You're not gonna tell me and Dean off for doing something stupid?" Sam goaded, trying to keep his spirits up as the Rogers house grew ever larger through the front windscreen. There was a demon in there, and a man who'd probably sold his soul.

The phone couldn't have possibly properly captured her laugh, but it warmed him and strengthened him all the same. "_That's a lost cause, sorry Sam. See ya._"

"Bye, Jody," Sam replied, clicking the call off just as the car rolled into the driveway.

Dean took one look at the claw marks across the door before swearing and leaping out of the car, slamming the impala's door and racing through into the house.

Sam fumbled with his seatbelt but followed as fast as he could, mentally running down everything he had on him as he took the running steps up to the ajar front door. He had the flask of holy water, Ruby's knife held carefully and familiarly in his inside pocket and his phone ready on the pre-recorded exorcism.

Dean ran through it, throwing it wide open and Sam charged in after. The Rogers had a nice house, or must once have, because under all the smashed glass and the ruined busts, despite the clawed floorboards and ravaged walls, there was a simplistic elegance to the turn of the staircase and the flow of the hall.

The expensive order of the architecture was still obvious as Dean nodded for Sam to take the stairs. Sam took his gun out, the one loaded with Salt in one hand and reached down as he ascended to the first floor, nabbing the knife out of his jacket and holding onto that. Hand down and up, all within the breadth of a step.

Sam knew calling out was a bad idea, he knew that if Mr Rogers _could _hear him, he'd not be likely to respond to some unfamiliar man's voice. But Sam needed to do _something_. Wilting around with a gun in his hand made him feel more than redundant. He reached the top stair and looked around.

There was a demon somewhere, and a pack of hell hounds. And here he was, scowling through a strangers destroyed house. With no sign of the Damned stranger.

"Mr Rogers?" He tried again, turning in a circle, catching a glimpse of the view from the window. The house made the most of natural light, tickling tendrils scorching through the windows.

"_Sammy_?" said a soft, feminine voice, with a honey sweet southern accent from behind him. "Sammy boy? Is it really you?"

Sam kept a tight hold on his gun as he turned to see who he was dealing with. The demon had blood on her fingertips and along her lips. There was flecks of it on her cardigan and pants, but other than that, she looked picturesque.

"Where is he?"

"My husband?" she asked, walking forward. Sam jerked his knife and gun up warningly and she stopped, with a short, mocking smile. "Well, he's _dead_, Sammy."

"It's _Sam_," Sam snarled, and the words came out as naturally as they had eight years ago.

"Sold his soul to hell," she sighed, continuing on as if she hadn't heard him. "Get's all of 'em in the end."

"All of who?" Sam asked, despite himself. Because_ he'd _gone to Hell, and _Dean _had gone to Hell, and he wanted to know what they made him. What this _bitch _thought it made him.

"The selfish ones, of course," she purred, and the Hound made a low rumble at the back of its throat.

Sam braced himself against turning to see if Dean was edging up the stairs. He knew he only needed to buy a little time.

"How'd you know me?" Sam spat out, digging around to find something else to pause time on.

"Didn't you hear? You're famous, Sammy! All over Demon News. Got your mug shots on every brimstone and fire street corner." She smiled. "It's all a bit exciting, really."

"Crowley's put out a hit on us?" Sam asked, and he found it a little harder to believe than usual. What with Crowley's humanisation and then his lack of apparent hatred towards the Winchesters in the past year.

She arched an eyebrow. "Oh, no. I didn't say that."

Sam glanced around, searching out for the telltale shiver in the air and low grunting thrum that gave off where the hell hound was. "Where's Fido?"

"Katie?" Stacy asked, surprised. "Why, she's doing her job. She and I, we were _very _busy ten years ago. She's got a lot of souls to collect."

Sam clenched his jaw. "Bring her back. _Now_."

The demon snorted. "Or what? You _know _how it works, boy. You kiss the devil and you pay the price. It's how it is and it's how it's always going to be. There's no escaping it." Her mouth pointed upward, lazy and cruel. "You of all people must know, there's no way of getting out a demon deal."

Sam didn't have time to develop into a fuller conversation of what she _did _mean about Crowley, or get into an argument about the year he'd watched Dean mauled to death in front of his eyes. Because Dean might have dampened the Mark of Cain, and he might have started to brush off years of loneliness, but he was _the _Dean Winchester. He was Sam's big brother. He was half the duo that monsters had nightmares about.

And she didn't see him coming.

She fell heavily to the ground as Dean smashed a vase across the back of her head. It reverberated and sounded sickeningly across the room. Sam watched as the demon collected herself, ignoring the trickle of blood slipping down her forehead. Dean was watching her unflinchingly, resolute and ready.

When she groggily rose, he smashed it again, this time the clay of the pot bounced trembling off the side of her head and splintered across the room, dusting over the carpet and across the floor. This time when she fell, it was permanent enough for a breather, to relax, regroup, and charge again.

Sam met Dean's eye.

Dean nodded to his unanswered question. _Are you alright_?

It wasn't so much of an affirmation than a _Are you_? But Sam would take what he could get.

The demon wasn't down yet though. She pushed angrily at the ground, adrenalin spurring her into action. Sam felt his fists clench. He didn't know what to do. Demons were hard enough to kill, and this proved that they were damn near impossible to capture. They'd needed to set up a trap, or _something_. What hope did they have now?

"Sammy," Dean yelled across the room. He kicked at her head and she collapsed again, hissing in frustration as she pushed herself to her feet. "Clear out of this funky town!"

Sam glared. "No—" But then he paused, for the breadth of an instant and mulled over Dean's words. It was weirdly phrased and oddly stilted, and as Dean tried to kick at her again, it clicked in Sam's head.

She twisted and tore him down, pulling him heavily across her, smacking his head onto the floor. Sam felt the same thrill of panic rush across the bottom of his stomach as she attacked his brother. Urgent flashing red broke across his vision. All he could think about was getting her _off_ him, all he could think about was her ruthlessness and _Dean, Dean, NO._

He did the only thing he could think of, desperately, he let the chant flow out of his mouth. "_Exorcitamus te—_"

She twisted away from Dean and hissed at Sam. Her face was nearly unrecognisable, monstrous and inhuman. She lunged at Sam, splaying her hand and flinging him against the wall. He hit it with a thud, ignoring the pang along his shoulder, leaping for the way Dean had come, crashing down the stairs as fast as he could go, heartbeat a deafening drum in his ears. He couldn't hear if she was following, not yet, not as he plummeted from the top of the stairs to the bottom.

He hit the floor with a crash and stilled just for a moment, to gather his strength and assess the damage. His rib ached and his wrist panged, but nothing more than that cried out in the few moments he gave his body to complain.

Sam stumbled to his feet and kept running as he heard her bounding after him. Gone was the preservation and finesse. Since Dean had disorientated her, she'd become a savage creature of instinct, determined to chase him down, determined to devour them both whole. But she'd forgotten Dean in her savage delight in hunting Sam, and he just prayed that she'd forget long enough to put what he suspected Dean had done into play.

He leapt into the kitchen and didn't stop until he was safely behind the breakfast bar, a quick glance at the ceiling telling him he'd come to the right place. He held his hands ready carefully, watched the doorway and the windows, and kept his breathing even, his feet spaced cleverly apart.

She jerked into the hallway, face flicking from smiling to snarling to smiling again. And every time she took a step her form shook, like the human she was possessing was slowly coming apart.

And then she stepped through the doorway.

Sam stood up straight and smiled, letting his shoulder relax and feeling the pain he'd been ignoring flow around his bloodstream. But he couldn't feel it as he watched her, watched her cock her head in confusion, watched her hiss in fury as she looked up.

Dean staggered into the room from the other end. His mouth was bloody and he favoured his left side, but he was upright and easily conscious as he took in the scene in front of him.

"Got her, then?"

Sam winced as his wrist flinched as he pushed his mused hair away from his face. "Yeah. Got her."

Dean moved to Sam's side, and though he must have noticed Sam's injuries, didn't say anything. Not yet, at least. Centred in the devils trap was the demon, who was slowly regaining her sense of the world and watching the brothers with unbridled _murder _in her eyes. They watched her back, breathing out of synch, and heavily, combating the injuries that she'd given them.

"Funky town?" Sam demanded suddenly. "Out of all our cue words, you go for funky town?"

Dean shrugged, and winced after he'd done it. Sam wanted to know how deep his brothers wounds went, but he had no idea whether that would help or hinder his healing process. "Seemed like the most accurate."

"We need to expand our list."

"I don't know how many times we're gonna need to say, 'I've set up a devils trap downstairs', but you're the linguistics guy."

* * *

With some manoeuvring, they managed to get the demon into cuffs and sitting in a more approachable area of the house. Sam and Dean sat opposite her on the couch, each brother taking up a pillow each, watching her, just watching, as she struggled against their bonds.

Finally, Dean broke the silence. He'd found the demons aggressive quiet to be unnerving. Most of the time, demons fell into three categories. There were the sadistic, which was where most fell. Liked to smile as you screamed and laugh as you cried, relished in your suffering like your pain was some sort of antidote to a crippling disease they'd been suffering all their lives. Then there were the violent ones. A lot of demons fell into this one as well. Probably suffering from anger issues as a human, they were vicious, little more than attack dogs. They spat out insults, a dime a dozen, but they were easy to separate from the crowd, and their desperation made them easy to kill. The third were the ones more like Crowley. Douche bags, bitches, ass holes. The worst sort of narcissists and dictators. They rose above it all with a slight smirk and arched eyebrows, with condescending smiles and patronizingly slow voices.

But all three spoke, all three never really stopped talking at all.

"First things first," Dean said expressionlessly. "Where's Crowley?"

Dean felt Sam shift next to him, drifting a little closer to the demon, eager for her answer.

She just tilted her head.

Sam didn't even need to be told. His flask of holy water was out and ready before Dean had even finished speaking. With a splash, he emptied half of the bottle onto the chest front of the demon.

Dean found some sort of grim satisfaction when her shrieks of pain confirmed that she had a voice at all.

Dean stood, he bent over and stared hard into the demons eyes. "I said, where's Crowley, _bitch_?"

She gasped, still seizing in pain and looked pointedly away.

But Dean wouldn't be swayed so easily. "Sam?"

His younger brothers holy water came readily, this time in two hits, and each time seemed more excruciating than the last. She arched her back and screamed, and Dean pulled back a little, resisting a child's instinct to crawl onto the floor and hide his head between his hands, begging for the howling to end.

He gave himself three seconds to compose himself.

He pushed through after two.

"_Where is Crowley_?"

She just glared at his face, breathing heavily. When he leant forward, she brought out a wad of spit and sent it hurtling towards his face.

Dean made a face and wiped it clean with the back of his wrist, sleeve of his top dampening with the saliva.

"Tell us," Sam stated, and Dean took in his little brothers profile as he heard Sam's voice, so cold and to the point. There was no too big of a movement of his lips, and his eyes held her pitilessly.

Dean turned back to the demon. Despite whatever the hell people thought about them, which roles each played, Sam was scary. Sam was _terrifying_, when he wanted to be.

Then, glaring, she stared hard at Sam. "I don't—"

Without waiting for her to finish, he emptied the rest of the holy water over her lap and down her front.

"Well, you're talkin'," Dean said, smiling without humour. "Let's start with somethin' easy, yeah? What did Roger sell his soul for?"

The demon looked coldly proud of this. "Money and a wife that would never age, and stay young and beautiful for him forever."

Sam's eyebrows were raised. "So you possess a young, beautiful woman and marry him? What the Hell? Why?"

"Dunno if you've noticed," the demon snarled, and the use of her tongue seemed to be coming back more easily now as she developed progress report on the last ten years she'd spent on the outside. "Hell's kinda been a mess lately. Didn't want to dip my toes back in before I was sure it was all kosher."

"Sweetheart, it's hell," Dean informed her, placating. "It ain't ever gonna be kosher."

She snorted. "That's what you think. Hell used to run like clockwork. Under Azazel and Lilith, we had an aim and a target and all we needed was a means. And Azazel and Lilith, they didn't..._fuck _around with humans and angels and deals, they did what they had to. They kept us alive. Kept as monsters, typhoons trapped on a keychain." The smiled again, that cold distant smile that she'd shown them before. "We were perfect."

"And Crowley...?"

"Is a buffoon," She informed them.

Dean noticed a flick in her eyelid, a tremble at her chin. He leant down to meet her, eye to eye. "You're lying."

Sam cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "Dean—"

"No, Sam," Dean dismissed, and he stared hard at her, waiting to see if she'd crack. "Where is he?"

She was silent again.

Dean quirked his eyebrows in a 'here we go' gesture and pulled out his own selection of holy water. Without ceremony he tipped it over her shoulders and chest, where it seized and hissed, great wafts of white smoke curling up from the top of her legs and base of her neck.

"Where is he?"

No answer.

He responded by tipping another few drops over her body.

"Honey, I got a months worth of this stuff waitin' for me in the impala. I can do this all day."

For a moment her eyes widened into true desperation, before morphing again into a disparaging sneer.

Dean shrugged and sighed. "You asked for it." And sprayed her again, this time watching her unblinkingly as she let out a scream of searing pain.

"Dean," Sam said hesitantly, and Dean drew back, standing side by side with Sam. He knew Sam was more uncomfortable with having to watch than having any issue with the ordeal altogether. But when he and Sam were eye to eye, Sam gestured his head off to the kitchen.

Once there, Dean looked up at Sam, frustrated. "Ok, what?"

"Gee, think you could cool it?" Sam demanded, glancing back to the room with the inhibited demon, voice low and urgent.

Dean frowned. "Why?"

Sam paused like he didn't know how to phrase what he was going to say next. He was watching carefully, like he didn't know how Dean was going to take it. Like he might take it badly. "How..._strong_ exactly, is Missouri's spell?"

Dean backtracked and stared at Sam, hard, understanding immediately what Sam was insinuating. Because it dusted at the corners of his consciousness, and had done, ever since they'd picked up the case with Charlie and Dorothy. Ever since he'd felt adrenalin pumping through his veins and his muscles pounding with frenzied energy.

He didn't answer his brother, not fully. He just looked away, and hoped that it would be enough without saying that he agreed with Sam. That he was _terrified_.

Sam cleared his throat. "Ok. Right, so just leave it to me, from here on out."

Dean raised his head harshly. "Sammy, no. I'm not gonna ask you—"

"You're _not_," Sam pointed out, equally defiant. "I'm _telling _you."

* * *

Crowley made himself invisible and watched.

Because if the king of Hell _was _going to talk to the Winchester's, he wanted to know that they _were_ just going to talk, and not that he was about to end up on the pointier end of that pig sticker they'd picked up along the way. Crowley wasn't furiously attached to life, but he did value his over a lot of other peoples and those people contained a decent number, Sam and Dean finding themselves smack bang in the middle of all of it.

Crowley sat in one of the plush armchairs as Sam interrogated the Demon to Crowley's whereabouts. Her silence was promising. If she got out of this in one piece, she'd definitely be looking at a raise. Maybe even extended leave.

He knew why they were doing what they were doing. He'd told his demons to stay _away _from the  
Winchesters for this exact reason. They all knew where he was, and if they knew where he was, then the brothers would find some way to get it out of them. Perhaps Stacy hadn't gotten the memo, but she was holding up exponentially well regardless.

When Sam shared a meaningful look with Dean, and reached into his jacket to pull out his knife, Crowley felt a deep pang deep inside his heart.

He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. _No_. Not again. He'd thought he'd kicked the human thing, thought that it'd been dusted off when he'd handed Sam back. He was starting to worry that he'd _never _regain the ruthlessness he'd relied on for all those years.

But...he...

Crowley forced his eyes open and stepped forward, his glamour falling off instantly. Both of the Winchesters jumped as he appeared, the grip Sam had on his knife increased tenfold, mouth braced back into a snarl.

"Hello, boys," Crowley greeted lazily.

"My king?" Stacy asked, and her voice was wispy.

It made for a weird sight, the four of them gathered under the sun streaming through the window, the plush pillows, remnants of the life that had been built for Roger Rogers and his demon wife splayed around the room like it had been left to a group of children.

Crowley almost sighed with relief when the violent thoughts pursued him through his brain. That both the Winchesters were injured, that killing them now would be laughably easy. And Crowley could see it. He could see his hands spreading wide, his eyes turning black, a ghostly smile carving itself knife, by knife into his cheeks. He could see their spines snap and their heads crack, could see the blood that would trickle down in a river of red and gore and merge together. He could see _all _of it.

But there was that _thing_, the thing he'd grown to loath and depend on. That thing that stopped his hand, stilled him from actually going through with it.

Crowley responded silkily to Stacy. "Hello my dear."

"Crowley," Dean stated angrily. "We've been trying to summon you, you son of a bitch."

"I came, I turned invisible, I left," Crowley recounted drily. "Etcetera."

"Why did you save my soul, Crowley?" Sam demanded. "What do you want?"

"I don't _want _anything," Crowley informed them. "Why the hell would I want anything from you? I'm the king of Hell, morons. I can get whatever I want without your help."

Neither brother was swayed. "What do you _want_, Crowley?" And this time Sam's voice had an edge of desperation ringing around it. Crowley wondered if Sam suspected that he'd go for his brothers soul, if he'd claim it for himself. He wondered if Sam was scared that he'd lose his brother again.

He tried to feel indifferent. He _really _did. But that ache, the one that had spurred itself and just kept running reared it's goddamned head again.

"Well, for one, this demon," Crowley gestured to Stacy, who was slowly regaining her breathing. She looked over at him in surprise. He pretended to ignore it and continued. "And for another, a little faith, if you'd please, boys."

"Faith?" Sam asked, incredulous. "In _you_? You're a _demon_!"

Crowley frowned. "That's a little harsh, isn't it?"

Crowley watched as a triad of emotions crossed the younger Winchesters face. From confusion to wondering to a deeper, resonating discomposure. If _Crowley _remembered nearly being cured and all that it entailed, then the man who'd gone through with the trial would surely remember it as well.

_I just want to be loved!_

_What?_

"Truth be told," Crowley stated suddenly, and he wasn't sure why he was. Perhaps, in this lapse, where he was neither demon nor human, there was some loss of control over himself. Perhaps this was all some technicolour dream, and he'd wake up soon, humming and in the clutch of a murderous heart. "It was a shame I had to give you back."

Neither responded, they just watched him carefully, the fingers around the knife slowly growing tighter.

Crowley didn't look at either of them. "I would have liked a full set."

And he didn't give them a chance to pursue the train of thought. All he gave them was a look, and then a click of the fingers that unfastened the bonds around the demons wrists. With a jerk she disappeared, and after beat, Crowley followed her lead.

* * *

The ride back in the impala was quiet. Sam nursed the worst of his injuries with minimal discomfort. None were life threatening and it'd be like he'd never had them at all after a week. Dean's shoulder was inflamed and his ankle was twisted, but he ignored all of it, and only grunted in answer when Sam asked if he was ok.

Sam supposed it was all he was going to get.

Sam pressed his hands to his rib, the one he suspected of breaking, and winced, thinking about Crowley. Thinking about the demon. Thinking about _everything_. "The Hell did Crowley mean, a full set?"

Dean's hands loosened on the wheel, like he'd been waiting for Sam to pick it up. Like he'd not wanted to start the conversation and be responsible for where it led. The world sped passed them, and Sam watched as his brother carefully chose what he was going to say next. When Dean was usually so spontaneous and instinctive, Sam felt a cold sort of dread slink down across his limbs, itching out against his fingers.

"He was talkin' about your soul," Dean said, clenching his jaw. "I...I dunno, Sammy."

Sam nodded and sank deeper into the leather of the impala's seats. "Right. Yeah, neither."

There was a silence, which Sam broke but accidently letting out a gasp of pain as his rib seized, the adrenalin from before easing off as he relaxed.

Dean glanced over. "You're letting me have a look at that when we get back to the motel."

Sam's voice was small when he answered. "Alright."

A shifting silence fell about them.

Then Sam cracked a smile, and pushed his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a creased sheet of paper and, with a glance, Dean saw that it was the sheet that Alex had been writing on when they'd been interviewing Darla.

"Somethin' funny?" Dean asked, trying to read the scrawled letters from the driver's seat.

Sam just flashed the list to Dean. He was smiling still, the sort of smile he reserved for warm days and clean hotel rooms. "She's listed the ingredients for Mars Bar slice. She wants us to pick it up on the way back."

Dean was bemused. "Seriously?"

Sam placed a hand on his ribs, but he was still smiling, staring down at that little white piece of paper. "Seriously."

* * *

With the monsters and the demons all locked away for the moment, Jody and Alex were bade farewell by the Winchesters as they drove on out of the motel car park. The enigma of Darla Higgins hadn't been solved, and the Winchester's wondered what would happen to her soul now that the demon controlling the Hell Hound was out of the picture.

Nothing good, though, was the general consensus.

Jody's truck showed itself out into moving traffic, and Alex waved back at them, smiling a little smile. As they watched through the windscreen, Jody placed her hand comfortingly on Alex's shoulder.

Neither brother said anything as Jody mothered the girl. Neither said anything about the deep shafts of pain that shot through their systems at the sight.

Sam, who'd never been mothered, never _had _a mother.

And Dean, who missed it so much that sometimes he felt like he couldn't breathe.

"They'll be alright," Dean said, complacent, as the car was whizzed off along the road, one moment theirs to see and smile at, and the next off for them to miss and theirs to remember. "Jody and Alex. They'll be alright."

"Yeah," Sam affirmed, and he looked across at his wistful brother, hand pressed again to his aching rib. "Yeah, of course."

But neither spurred from the spot they were in. And neither made a move to encourage the other back into the motel room.

The wind spent itself across in a roll, and Dean hit his brother comfortingly on the shoulder. "So."

"So," Sam agreed.

Dean grinned. "Chinese or Indian?"

* * *

_REFERENCES_

_Chapter title: Running Up That Hill, named after the same song by Kate Bush "And if I only could, make a deal with God, and get him to swap our places."_

_~Jody correcting Dean on Alex's name~ : From my other fic Alex Annie Alexis Anne, where she decides on what name she'd going to use now that she's free from the vampires etc._

_Thanks for reading!_

_Next chapter: **Paradise Rediscovered**_


	6. Paradise Rediscovered

_Hey y'all,_

_So here I am with Episode/Chapter 6. Gonna have to forgive me for the jump from Monster of the Week to actual plot progression, but I'm as disappointed as you are._

_MOW's are just too fun ok omg. Casual brotherly banter, fun new character's that'll be gone in three lines...ah. _

_**Contains Spoliers_

_Researched: Bobby Singer's timeline, fan theories on Supernatural's unlimited Heaven_

_Rewatch: 5x19 The Dark Side of the Moon_

_New Tags: Bobby Singer, Ash (No last name? That's weak, Kripke), Heaven, Death_

* * *

"_And it's something quite peculiar_

_something shimmering and white_

_leads you here despite your destination_

_under the milky way tonight._"

-_Under the Milky Way, _Church

* * *

All people met their end. All of them. And it was _especially_ Hunters. That life of darkness and misery, stake outs and bad food, cheap clothes and the numbing to pain and loss, was everything and nothing.

Death was welcome to Hunters, death was averted by Hunters at all costs.

Even the Winchester's who seemed to bound back into life like every time they died or damned themselves was a nap, a brief pause from then to now, will fade away at one point. One day, there'd be no one to remember that they'd existed.

It wasn't pretty. It didn't have to be. It was just the truth.

Even so, Jenny Truman didn't think that she'd be kicking the bucket on her very first hunt. She supposed that it was the thing that a lot of newbie Hunters would catch themselves on. There's not really anything that can prepare you for what the Life brought. Even when she'd helped the hunters that had come to expel the poltergeist that had killed her husband, that had left her with nothing in the case of the rugaru that her first turned out to be.

When she stood up, and looked down, she nearly screamed.

She jerked away and looked hard in the other direction, breathing hard and letting the wispy bits of her hair come down and cover her face.

Because there she was, and when she finally proved brave enough to look again, she saw herself, her dead self, once more.

And it was _horrific_. Eyes wide and vacant, lips spread slightly awry, caught in an unuttered scream. The rugaru pressed his mouth to her neck and wrenched out a casserole of meat and muscle and tissue, blood streaming off it, flicking out like tear drops along his white carpet.

Now Jenny was locked in terrified fascination. The red stared out harsh against her dead self's skin, her body was spread like a rag doll, one of her two palms facing outward, like it was praying.

Like _she _were praying.

And then she snapped out of it, because there was a voice behind her, and she certainly hadn't heard anyone else in the house when she'd first come in. "Jenny, turn around."

And because she was surely dead, and gone, and because she was so lost, and everything was beginning to sink in, Jenny did. She felt the hysteria build in the back of her throat, gasping at her eyesight, snarling at her lungs. She couldn't keep this up. She was going to _drown_.

"_Jenny_."

And this time, when the voice spoke, she _listened_. She allowed herself to recognise the softness, the comfort that it offered. And when she looked up and met the woman's eyes, she felt her lungs slowly fill and decompress.

"I'm—"

"Dead," the woman finished easily. She took a hesitant step forward, like everything she did was keeping Jenny in mind, like everything she did was infinitely calculated and thought out. "Yes, you're dead. You're a hunter, right?"

Jenny nodded slowly, blinking and forcing herself to answer the question. "Ye—Uh, well, sort of. I was..." she tightened her jaw and forced back the wave of panic. "This was my first. My, uh, yeah, _first_."

The woman nodded slowly. "Do you know what I am?"

"A reaper?" Jenny guessed, thinking back to the list of monsters, good and bad that the Hunter's who'd cleaned up the poltergeist situation had left with her.

The woman nodded, and she smiled. Under any other circumstances, Jenny would have hated that smile. It screamed _children _and _youth _and _I'll take care of you_. And Jenny knew that it was _patronising_. But these were hardly normal times. And she hardly had anything, now, against a little coddling.

"My name is Tessa."

"Tessa," Jenny repeated. She wasn't sure if she was doing it to assure herself and the Reaper that she was following the conversation, or whether it was because it seemed off that an ancient being would have such a simple name. She was surprised that she could pronounce the name at all. She frowned. "_Tessa_?"

The Reaper smiled, and her long mane of black hair shifted about her shoulders as she took another few steps forward. "It was my grandmothers name. Sort of a family thing."

Jenny acknowledged that the Reaper was trying to make a joke, but with her body being ripped to shreds a few metres behind her, the best she could offer was a small smile.

Tessa didn't seem offended though. She just took another step forward, so that the two women were face to face.

Jenny couldn't look anywhere but her eyes now, almost hypnotic in their earnest, blueness.

Tessa smiled sadly. "Are you ready to move on?"

"I..." Jenny felt her hands screw into fists. _Ready_? She hadn't saved anyone yet! She hadn't done _anything _yet. The best she could boast of was distracting the poltergeist in her husband's case long enough for the Hunters to get their job done. She knew all of this lore and all of these truths that she hadn't a few weeks ago, and now she just had to _leave_?

It was so _unfair_.

Jenny tightened her jaw. When she answered, her voice was steadier, but rueful. "Is anyone?"

Tessa seemed nonplussed. Jenny wasn't surprised. She supposed that the reaper had seen and heard it all. All the begging, all the crying and questions and lamenting. "Not really, but you'd be surprised." When Tessa spoke next, there was a fragile severity to her tone. "There are some people who recognise the peace that death would bring them."

"Nobody wants to die," Jenny countered, feeling very small.

"Of course not," Tessa acknowledged. "But not everyone wants to deal with life, either."

"The better of two evils," Jenny muttered, to herself more than to the reaper. "Seems pretty depressing."

Tessa's lips pursed into a cynical smile. "It's a depressing existence."

Jenny knew that she couldn't stay. You _didn't _stay, because if she did, she'd turn into the sort of thing that killed her husband, killed hundreds, if not thousands of people. She'd wilt into an angrier, uglier shadow of herself. The Hunters had told her.

_When your time comes_, the said. _Which it will, sooner now that you're bein' stubborn 'bout this huntin' thing...you _go_._

But she couldn't help it. "Will it hurt?"

Tessa frowned. "Will what?"

Jenny felt her hands roll themselves into the fabric of her jeans, tucking the blue fabric under her nails. "Whatever comes..._next_."

Tessa watched her for a beat, before shaking her head slightly, eyes full of apology. "I can't tell you what comes next."

"Oblivion?" Jenny guessed. But Tessa's amused expression gave nothing away, other than her experience with people trying to force out where the next path would lead them.

"Wait," and from behind her, shifting out of a glamour a young man appeared. He was youthful and handsome, and he was peering at Jenny like she was an exhibit at the zoo. "We don't tell them?"

Tessa seemed almost irritated by the comment, and by the time Jenny's already stilled heart had stopped trying to beat out of her chest, the Reaper rolled her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Tessa apologised, looking to Jenny. The man looked uncomfortable, but didn't stop staring hard at the dead Hunter. When Tessa spoke next, Jenny sensed an undercurrent of hope, a bright river that snaked beneath a dark sky. A forgotten hope, perhaps, or recently reawakened. Either way, it was faint, but it _thrummed _with life. "He's new."

* * *

"Thanks Matthew," Dean farewelled into his cell, crossing his arms over his chest after throwing it off onto his motel bedspread. He turned to Sam, who'd been waiting for him to get off the phone after he'd gathered the gist of the conversation after coming out of the shower. His hair was damp and the water bled into the cotton of his shirt, but he didn't seem to notice, watching Dean carefully for any indication of how severe Matthew's phone call was.

"Well?" Sam demanded, a beat after when Dean should have filled him in.

Dean ran a hand through his hair and leant against the table. "A hunters been killed by a rugaru."

"Anyone we know?" Sam asked, and his voice was already surrendered. The chances that it was, was high. After the past few years. Hunter's had become more and more scarce, and as the numbers dropped, so too did the size of the network. There was no Ellen and the roadhouse to divide out jobs, there was no Bobby to rely on if you'd come off the worse end of a kitsune, there weren't even the Campbell's, the very last resort.

So everyone knew everyone.

Which sucked, because everyone who knew the Winchester's always ended up dead.

But Dean shook his head. "She was new. Jenny, uh, Truman, I think. Something like that. Anyway, she kicked the bucket, _but_," Dean crossed his arms again, relaxing as Sam guiltily let his shoulders dropped unburdened for a few more weeks without the grief that came with losing someone close to you. "Her soul, it didn't hang around."

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

Dean gestured to his phone. "Matthew and Carlos checked the place out, EMF'd it top to bottom after they took down the Ru', and nothing, no sign of her."

Understanding alit in Sam's eyes. He dumped the towel and dirty clothes he'd been carrying onto the bed and sat down next to it. "So, the Reapers are back in business."

Dean nodded, smiling. "Cas is pickin' up the slack."

Sam smiled as more relief eased his back. He leant forward and rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, shaking his head in disbelief. "I..._damn_. This is actually working, huh?"

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean agreed, standing up and cranking open the creaking old fridge. He pulled out two beers and walked over to Sam, handing one to his brother, pulling off the cap at the same time as Sam. "Cheers to us, right?"

"And Cas," Sam affirmed. "And Hannah, and Tessa, and..." Sam's eyes softened with grief for a moment, and Dean slowed, wary of what Sam might say, but he pulled himself out. "Everyone, _everyone_, else."

Glass clinked and they took identical swigs, downing a near quarter of the glass in one go.

"So," Dean said, moving away and tidying up the weapons he'd been organising on the table. "What now? Head on back to the Bunker?"

Sam stood to join him, instinctively knowing which weapon to hand him when. Sam stood opposite him across the table, hair still wet from the shower, cheeks a little rosier with the alcohol and good news. He nodded slowly. "I guess...I was..."

Dean looked up curiously. "What?"

Sam didn't meet his eyes. "It's just..._Kevin_."

"Oh," Dean said, and then his eyes widened as he realised what Sam meant. Because now that Heave was figuring itself out, they could call on Cas or Hannah to bring him back like they'd brought back Sam. "_Oh_."

Sam fidgeted. "Yeah."

An uneasy silence fell on them both. Because they _both _blamed themselves for the prophet's death. They _both _held themselves to that. Sam had watched his hand extend, and Dean had forced it.

Sam's voice was small when he spoke next. "You know we're going to have to talk about this at some point."

Dean didn't respond.

Sam frowned. "Dean."

Dean looked hard, back to his weapons. He glanced up at Sam. "You got Linda Trans number, right?"

Sam wasn't unhappy, or sad, or even disappointed, but his expectancy of Dean's response was almost worse. "We don't have to talk about it now, but we _do _have to sometime."

Dean coughed. "Right, yeah."

The silence that cloaked them was awkward and thick. Dean knew that he had to push through it, make the next step. Sam had done enough, he couldn't do anymore. He knew better than anyone that trying to force Dean to do something never worked out well.

"So, uh, you think we should try bring Kevin back?" Dean pressed back, and while it wasn't directly addressing all the things they really needed to talk about, it came close. Close enough that Sam let a smile slip.

Sam nodded. "Of course. Anyone deserves to have be brought back, it's him."

Dean nodded slowly. He moved away from the table, leaving the rest of the weapons to be packed as they moved out in the morning. "I'm not arguing with you on that one."

"So we just wait till Cas is free?" Sam asked, moving around the table so that he and Dean faced each other.

Dean nodded his head in affirmation. "Sounds like a plan, Sammy."

Sam let out a huff of air. "Awesome. Right, so, you want me to go get dinner?"

"Sure," Dean shrugged, collapsing back onto his bed. The ceiling rushed around to meet him, and he stared up at it, trying to make the smoke stains and weird decor into a series of images.

Sam sounded amused when he spoke next. "The usual?"

"You got it."

Dean didn't sit up when he heard the door slam, when he heard a shout back from his brother that he'd only be a few minutes.

He lay there, in the quiet, for a few minutes, and focused his hardest on not pouring himself a drink. Fingers curled into the doona he was lying on, eyes locked helplessly into the air a few centimetres off from his face. The world seemed to slow and his mind began to run rampant, everything he'd been repressing, every sound and taste and friend that had been buried under work and drive and the mark was brimming to the surface.

But he _had _to fight it down. Because if he didn't perhaps it would trigger the mark again. And perhaps he'd go back to the way he was before. And then, perhaps, when he killed his brother again, he'd _enjoy _it.

Dean felt _sick_.

Not ill enough, though, to stay lying down when a voice sounded from next to him. "Dean Winchester."

He jerked upright and reached for his colt. He pulled the gun out and pointed it at the offending intruder.

He sheepishly lowered it when he saw the unamused glower of the man who'd been at the receiving end of his mortal weapon.

Death was unchanged. The white Horseman could have passed as a scholarly great uncle, or a humourless librarian, but Dean saw him for what he truly was. He was the entity born at the dawn of time, he was a god of immense power for destruction and disgrace, he was a storm trapped within a body and he was the thunder that drew blood from the ground.

Death had told Dean once that he was to end every single existence. He'd end God's, one day, and all the angels. He was impossible to kill, as he was death, and he held the gasping collection that was humanity with an air of distaste and a curled lip of disapproval.

He was terrifying, and the subtle anger clouding over his face was enough to tell Dean that he wasn't his favourite person at the moment.

"Death," Dean greeted cautiously, standing to greet him.

Death looked at him pointedly. "Sit."

Dean complied, and looked at Death warily, silent.

Death didn't sit, he just stood and watched, piercing eyes cutting through Dean like lasers.

Dean wondered what he was here about. Wondered what had set him off. If it was the Mark, or killing Metatron, or something else completely.

"My job isn't easy, as you well know," Death said slowly, his preface building severity with each word. "But your walk in my shoes is the _speck _of a blimp on the severely mis-ratioed diagram of my life."

Dean didn't say anything. Greetings were never usually a big thing with death. Normally there was a threat, then words were exchanged, then deals were made.

Dean tried to forget that the last time he'd seen Death, he'd been collecting Sam's soul, to take it to Heaven.

"What were you doing?" Dean asked, and his throat tasted heavy, his words sounded immature and overly inquisitive next to Death's controlled tones. "This year, I mean. With the spirits and stuff."

Death's eyes grew dark at the interruption. "My job is to take, not to carry. Death is leaving this life, rebirth is entering the next." Death's head tilted. "Whether it be Heaven or Hell."

Dean couldn't help but mutter, "Glad that's cleared up." and was promptly ignored by Death who continued.

"I have done much, seen much, been the witness and the scapegoat for wars and famines and diseases," Death's eyes glinted, almost amused at the irony. "I have seen the world on its brink and I have seen _desperation_."

His last word was decisive, and Dean felt it hit. Empathy, searing, burning _compassion _scored through his heart. He had felt desperation, he had gotten drunk off it as it bled into his veins. He had nearly been poisoned by it as it beat in time with his heart, and heaved with the comes and goes of his breaths.

The way Death looked at him, Dean was sure that he already knew.

And before he said it, Dean guessed what Death was going to say.

He looked at the human across from him, eyes downcast, figure imposing and powerful. Dean was at his mercy the same way an ant is at mercy to the shoe that comes down beside it, the way the seed from a tree floats with the whims of the wind. "You brought Sam back."

Dean swallowed when he realised Death was waiting for an affirmation. "Uh, yes...yes I did."

Death's face did not change. It was almost eerie in its sameness, but then Dean figured that nothing was surprising him. That it wouldn't were Death _not _all knowing.

"Death and Life, as I'm sure you know," Death started again. "Have a line drawn between them. Thick in the sand. Once you move one way, you can't go back. Sometimes people get caught on the line, they toe either side, but in the end, they always move on. The bowl of the dead grows, the fields of the living expand. Until both sides are toe to heel, staring in one direction."

Death let silence fall.

"Not you. Not you and Sam, though. You stand on either side, but you face in. Face to face, eye to eye, close enough to touch each other. You play the same balancing act as each other, and it's with keeping the other balancing across the line that you keep _yourselves _from falling over."

Dean still didn't answer. He felt a coldness stir inside of him as he imagined that, him and thousands of others facing the same way, all except Sam, who stood stock still and defiant, facing away, facing towards Dean. A small, trusting smile on his lips.

"And there, Dean, is where the problem lies." Death was almost sympathetic now. The bite of his words was stifled as he appealed to Dean. He let his eyes rest softly, and Dean was appreciative of the effort the Horseman was going to. "That is unnatural. That is not right. It is an _affront. _I have claim over Sam. I have claim over you. However much you might have saved the earth, however much you might have forestalled its closure, everything meets its end. The world will, and you have."

Dean stared at his hands, hard.

Death's voice was almost soft now. "I have claim on you both."

Dean looked up at him. "So, what? You're going to take me? Take Sam? Whisk us off to Heaven? Or damn us for eternity?"

Death tilted his head. Dean couldn't be bothered to feel worried about invoking the horseman's wrath, because what more could he do than what he'd already promised? The Winchester's had met their end. Met it scolded by someone a lot stronger and a lot more powerful than any of them had a chance at beating.

"I am not here to kill you, Dean. Not you or your brother."

Dean felt tension dissipate and confusion bubble up to take its place. "Wait, what?"

Death looked almost _amused _as he took in the elder Winchester. "With all the trouble that death and the afterlife has been dealing with in the past year, you truly think I'd concern myself with reaping two souls myself? Treating with two souls myself?"

"You came here, didn't you?"

A trickle of Death's humour melted away. "And waste barely an inch of the time it would take to deal with you fully, yes."

Dean didn't really get it, but he decided not to push his luck. Death was tetchy enough as it was, he didn't need to give him another reason to want to kill him. Whatever luck he'd had in befriending the entity in the past was pure luck and circumstance. And neither of those things were something he usually had large amounts of.

"But you must be punished, Dean."

_Punishment_. He closed his eyes and he saw the abandoned blazing eternity that was Hell. The screaming and the begging. He saw all the nightmares he'd had about Sam, trapped down with Lucifer and Michael and Adam, all the imagined ways that they were ruining his brother.

He managed to reply with a weak, "Oh."

Now the glint of amusement was back, but there was no warmth behind it. Dean was struck then, like he'd never been before, by how entirely _unhuman _the thing standing across from him was. How dark and dangerous and deep. "Killing you would not punish you, Dean, not really. However, killing—"

Dean's voice was hoarse and desperate, he fought against the rising urge to stand, to shout and fight. Because he knew what was coming. He saw it. "_No_."

But death carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "—Sam would."

"You _said _that you weren't going to claim us," Dean glared, feeling his body contract, ready to fight. Ready to fight this unbeatable thing to save his brother.

Then again, he'd eluded death before.

Death raised his eyebrows. "I did."

"Then—"

Death silenced him with an impatient hand. "Sam will die before you. You will know a life without him, you will know a life where you know, resolutely, that there is _no way _to bring him back. No deal, no angel, no time travel or Reaper. Nothing. There will be no way for you to bring back _anyone _else either." Death was looking at Dean, and there was real pity in his eyes. "But of the Winchester brothers, Sam will die first. And you will _have _to let him go."

Dean stared at Death hard. "And what if I don't want to?"

Death shrugged. "I don't care. Life and death is not something to be played with. It is a direct line. Remember, this sort of conformity isn't domination, this sort of conformity is a bone bare _necessity _to the circle of human life."

"Sam, and I..._please_," Dean said, and that desperation Death had been talking about before, it was taking over, fuelling his words, his angst, his despair. "It's only been a few times, and we...look at all we've _done_. We've died, what, three times each? And every time we've had a legitimate reason for coming back." Dean could feel wetness clothing over his eyes and he blinked it away furiously. "Just, _please_, not Sam. I...I _need _him, please, _please_."

Death looked a Dean blankly. "During the conundrum almost five years ago, did you know that Lucifer promised to bring Sam back, no matter how many times he killed himself?"

Dean felt cold, he felt trembling. Of course he remembered that time, that endless Winter, that series of days that would have served better as nights, those months of waiting and hoping and cracking.

"Do you ever wonder," Death said slowly. "How many times the devil had to fulfil that promise?" Death's face dropped, and when Dean saw him now, the horseman was weary. He'd travelled a long road, seen many things, and had many things to see yet. "Your brother deserves rest, Dean. This isn't punishment, not really. This is a new _chance_."

Dean didn't answer. What could he say? What possibly was there left to add?

Dean tensed as he heard something muffled over his shoulder. He turned around but didn't see anything. If Death had noticed, it didn't show.

"Goodbye, Dean," he said crisply. "I don't doubt that we'll meet again."

And the murmuring grew louder, and Dean realised that it was his name, and it came louder and louder, until the world around him seemed to sway and swallow, until it gasped like a the snapping of dusk to night.

* * *

"Dean! Hey, buddy, wake up," Sam squeezed Dean's shoulder and watched, eyebrow raised as Dean dizzily shook himself out of the stupor. "Hey, idiot."

Dean blinked up at Sam, confused. he ran an awkward hand through his hair before using both elbows to prop himself up. "Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam answered, waving the plastic bag full of greasy, heart stopping food in front of his brother. "I got dinner."

Dean sat up and massaged between his shoulder blades, cracking a grin. "Bout time."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Right."

Dean shook his head, like he was having trouble moving out of sleep and looked disorientated as he walked to the table. "Man, I had the weirdest dream."

Sam pulled out his dinner and span the bag across so Dean could pick his meal out. "Cool. I don't really care."

"You weren't there, but, like, _Death _was," Dean still looked a little out of it, ignoring the plastic bag in front of him and staring off over Sam's shoulder. He frowned a little. "He..."

After Dean had trailed off, Sam found himself growing irritatingly curious. "Well? What he want?"

Dean just shook his head, this time dismissive rather than confused. "No, I mean, I don't know. I can't remember."

"Right," Sam was dubious, but he didn't press the matter as he cracked open his Soy Chicken salad. "Manage to find any jobs, or did you clock off as soon as I left?"

Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Must've. I can't really remember. I was lying on bed and I sorta drifted, you know?"

"Sure," Sam allowed. He didn't really follow, but that was mostly because he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a decent sleep. Maybe towards the start, when Gadreel had been possessing him and monitoring all his activity, but beyond that and before that it was always disjointed, always spotted with nightmares. It was a good night if he managed to fall back asleep after he awoke.

Sometimes he dreamt about the cage. Sometimes he dreamt about, more recently, reaching out and killing Kevin. Other times it was just the dark and running. And he was always alone. And sometimes, sometimes it was that age old nightmare. Jess castrated above him on the ceiling, a younger him raising a hand to grasp her, to pull her down. A younger him screaming out her name.

"Salt?"

Sam shook his head and Dean rolled his eyes. "Your loss, Ramsay."

Sam shot him an exasperated face, which Dean avidly ignored. As he reached for the salt and brought it around to his collection of fries, he jerked with surprise.

Sam looked over quickly. "What's wrong?"

Dean was staring at his thumb and didn't answer, and Sam could tell his brain was being kicked into overdrive.

"Dean," Sam barked, and Dean caught himself and looked across the table to meet Sam's eye. Sam stood when he saw _fear _reflected in his big brothers eyes. "What happened?"

"Noth—"

"_Dean_," Sam snapped, and he moved efficiently around the table to take the seat nearer to his brother. He span it so that as he sat on it, he faced Dean. He looked at where Dean had been looking and his eyes widened as he took in his older brothers thumb.

"What the hell?" Sam wondered softly, stricken with confusion. He frowned and looked to Dean to see if he had any idea. Sam stopped before he went back to look again when he saw that Dean was _definitely _overstressed. It was weird, but it wasn't _that _weird.

"Dean?"

"Oh God," Dean managed, the blood had pooled away from his face and his faint freckles now stood out dark against the ghostly pallor of his cheeks. "It wasn't a dream. Oh _God_."

"Dean, seriously man, what's going on?" Sam desperately scanned his memory for anything retained from listening to Dean only a few minutes ago. But the information had been forgotten, lost as he saved room for the important stuff. But the senses were still there, the ideas of what he had felt when he and Dean had been speaking.

Dean didn't need to answer in the end, because Sam remembered. He remembered the odd dash of safety and fear, the clash between light and dark. Death and all that he entailed.

"Shit," Sam murmured, and took Dean's hand staring at the root of his thumb. Because there, between the thumb and the forefinger, was a black dot.

Dean and he had always had to entertain themselves when they were younger. More often than not, the TV was crap and the kids at the school they went to wanted nothing to do with them. During the school holidays especially, they had nothing. They had no one except each other. And as they got older, and Dean was the sole carer for Sam, they lost their father as well. They had books though, and Sam would learn and he'd tell Dean all he knew, and then Dean would nod along and listen as he made them both dinner.

When Sam read a book on pirates, the theme had run throughout all their games until they were too old to play together anymore. The black dot had been a odd favourite of Sam's, the idea behind it, the fear that lurked between the whole pirating world because of it.

And as they watched, the symbol for a Promise of Death eased off Dean's fingers, melting into his skin, like it had never been.

Sam met Dean's eyes and saw that the paleness wasn't abating. He assumed that Dean wasn't getting so worked up over a bit of ink and a party trick. He let Dean's hand drop and Dean pulled it back to his chest, rubbing at the skin where the mark had been.

"Dean, what the hell happened?"

"It was Death," Dean explained, and while he looked discomforted, he was slowly regaining himself. "He came and saw me."

"Right, yeah," Sam nodded. "What did he say?"

"That I was in trouble for bringing you back," Dean said, dropping into his work mode. There was determination in there now, perhaps not determination to find Death and change what he'd done, whatever it was, but determination to get through all that he had to.

"Well, can't say I'm really surprised at that one," Sam said drily, but Dean didn't look amused.

"He said..." Dean looked lost. "He said I needed to...to learn a lesson, I suppose."

Sam could feel panic shift in his gut. "What? What do you mean?"

Deans hands clenched into his pants, pulling hard at the fabric. "He said that you were gonna die first."

Sam felt a deadly calm descend upon him. When he spoke, his words were eerily straight and normal. His mouth dried and his eyes blurred, but his words were not stilted. His tone was not panicked. "Am I dying now?"

"No," Dean's words were almost a whisper. "But you _are _going to die before me."

Sam didn't need Dean to spell out the rest. Didn't need him to say that this time, there would be no second chances. This time, there would be no coming back. Because they were cats with spent lives, holding onto each other more than the ledge as they dangled off a cliff face.

Sam's food sat uneaten in front of his vacated seat. But that initial hunger couldn't have been further from his mind.

"I won't die, then," Sam said, and he swallowed. He looked up to Dean, who was watching him warily. "I don't die, you..." _You aren't alone_.

"You gotta die some point," Dean countered.

"Of course," Sam said. "But dying _now_, dying...here and now...I mean, man," Sam let his eyes bore into Dean, not looking away as Dean stared back. "Remember that hope? Of that light?"

"Sure," Dean allowed.

"It's dimmed," Sam admitted. "But _still there_. And if we could just _get _to it, maybe..."

Old age and mortgages. Bad day time TV and sore bones. Reminiscing and nostalgia. Sam didn't know how to spell it out, how to make it more obvious. Because there was no one left for him but Dean. Amelia had her love and her life returned to her despite all chances, and Sam was in no place to impede on that. Anyone else who could have been his was dead, Jess, his last image of her stretched high above his head, Madison, tear filled eyes as he turned his gun on her, Sarah, coughing blood and gagging, dying while he could have saved her.

All he had left to grow old with was his brother. The only person he _wanted _to grow old with was his brother.

Dean still hadn't spoken, but colour had returned to his cheeks, and he looked more at peace.

"I'm not dying," Sam promised. "Not yet."

Sam hated that there was some relief in Death's promise to Dean. Because this way, it would finally be _final_. This time, no more people would get hurt, because of him.

"I know what you're thinking," Dean said roughly, looking down at the hands still balled into the fabric of his jeans. "You're, uh, relieved, right?"

It seemed like a pretty basic way of putting it, but Sam nodded jerkily. "Yeah."

Dean paused, and Sam could _feel _him trying to put the words together to say what he needed to say. "If you think you're hurting less people by dying, you're wrong."

Sam looked up and frowned, and opened his mouth, but Dean cut him off before he could start.

"Why..." his brother smiled humourlessly. "Why'd you think I tried so hard to save you, Sam? Why'd you think I _always _try to save you?"

"Because..." _Because Dad told you to, because it's what's been forced into your head since day 1. But that's not the point. The point is, you shouldn't have to. You shouldn't feel that you need to._

Dean seemed to get what Sam was going to say without him saying it. He gave off a low laugh. "Right, yeah. No, man. We're family. We're brothers. We're all we've got left."

Sam felt his heart pang mercilessly in his chest. He looked into Dean's eyes, to see if there was _anything _to imply falsity, hell, he'd even take insanity. But Dean's gaze was strong and clear.

"Sammy," and Dean nearly choked on the word. "You, dyin'...it's the only thing, the _only _thing, that could..." his fists clenched again as he fought for words. "The _only _thing that could break me, ok? You got that power, and I got that power, and we pretend to forget, but we both know. You could destroy me, and all you gotta do is kill yourself."

Sam didn't know _what _to say. He didn't know whether to respond that he felt the same, that even when the world was falling around them, the one thing he'd always been able to count on had been Dean. He didn't know how to say it without actually _saying _it.

"Death told me, by the way."

Sam frowned in confusion. His voice tasted rusty when he spoke next. "Told you what?"

"About Lucifer," Sam tensed at the name. "And the suicide pact thing."

Sam stilled and sat up straight. He made no too big of a movement, and he carefully wiped his mind blank.

"How many times, Sammy?" Dean's voice was probing and quiet.

Blood replaced with poison, coursing through his system, stabbing its way through his psyche. _Please, please, let this one stick. _Desperation traded in for rational thinking, despair for intelligence, alcohol for water.

"A few," Sam said finally. _A lot_.

Dean read between the lines, and his face fell. But he picked it back up and nodded. "Ok." And then again. "Ok."

Sam couldn't have known, watching the facade his big brother put up, the turmoil and the guilt, the anger and the fury that was hidden beneath Dean's exterior. How sick he felt, how close to running into the bathroom and vomiting. How much he wanted to raise Lucifer, just to throw him back.

But that sort of anger had a cost, so all Sam saw, was a nod, and contemplative eyes.

* * *

Heaven, over the past few weeks, had been Hellish. Cas would have been amused by the relating of the two things had he not constantly been so distracted from the constant pressures of ruling such an expanse. Hannah had been no end of help. She'd been on top of everything, overseeing the filing of Metatron's private files and running the campaign to find the Angel blade. Even with the stress, they'd managed to remain friends, managed to remain companions.

Now she helped him, seated next to him, across Metatron's wide desk. Cas hated the thing, hated the entire room. But the even the meagre energy that it'd take to transform the room into something more palatable couldn't be wasted. Every inch of himself was devoted to helping Heaven.

The idea had been Hannah's idea, but the interviews had been Cas's. As much as he believed in his brethren, he didn't trust them. Not yet.

"And you wish to remain on earth," Hannah said. Her being there added another layer to fall back on as well. It was unsurprising that angels didn't take well to Cas, unsurprising but not unexpected. He had tried to take over Heaven, after all. And perhaps some of them would see that this was him succeeding.

The angel across from them certainly did and only responded when it was Hannah who asked the question.

"I do," Hampton said properly. Her hands were folded on her lap and the image she appeared in had perfectly placed hair and a detached vision of perfection. Nothing was forced and everything fit.

Hannah nodded, writing something down. Cas felt redundant, sitting and watching, but he didn't object. "And why is that?"

"I was situated in a hospital before I joined Metatron," she said simply. Cas watched her carefully. He would be able to sense lies, especially in Heaven where the truth was so paramount, but angels had learnt to glamour it, following the lead of their superiors. Cas saw no lie, and the slope of his shoulders was read by Hannah. This sort of communication had become important. Anything Cas said or did could be taken the wrong way. _Anything_. "I helped people. I healed the sick. I would like to go back."

"How did you gain entrance to your vessel?" Hannah asked, writing something else down.

Hampton's expression didn't change, nor did the sounds of her voice. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Was she fully aware of the consequences for such an action?" Hannah pressed, encouraging Hampton to come forward with what she'd done over the past year. "Did she _know _that she was leaving behind her entire life, her agency, that she was basically killing herself to serve you?"

Hampton shifted, uncomfortable more at the phrasing than anything else. Cas saw that when she spoke, she was still being truthful. "Yes. I explained the possession fully. She was a devout catholic, and was prepared to say yes anyway."

Cas was always afraid of that. There is no special place in Heaven for vessels. There is no remembrance or celebration or scripture. The people that the angels possess will be forgotten. And they will probably die.

Hannah nodded, finishing scribbling something down. "Now, what do you know of the new laws?"

"Killing a human constitutes an Age of imprisonment," Hampton recited dutifully. "Killing an angel, a similar term. Forcing humans to do your bidding is also a crime, as is possession under false pretences."

Hannah nodded, impressed. "Very good, Sister."

She caught Cas's eye and he nodded as well, to Hampton, who watched him with unblinking eyes.

Hampton turned back to Hannah. "Am I finished now?"

"You are," Hannah said, snapping her book shut. "The door to the hospital you worked at is up and running. It's yours when you are ready."

Hampton nodded her thanks, first to Hannah and then to Cas. All were silent as she made her way to the door. In Heaven, wings were not necessary for instantaneous travel, so her walking was more out of courtesy and respect than anything else.

She paused before she opened the door, turning to Cas, eyes still wide and unblinking, persona still carefully perfect.

"There are not many unforgivable things, Castiel."

And then she was gone.

Hannah let out a huff of air. "Hampton was always irritatingly cryptic."

Cas didn't answer, mulling over her words. "What do you believe she meant?"

Hannah looked over, pen poised over the paper. "Oh, I do not know. She will come around if she meant harm by it, Cas." She paused for a moment and bent back to the paper. "Heaven knows, I did. All those other Angels that you led when we were on earth did."

"Out of necessity," Cas agreed self-deprecatingly.

"Out of respect," Hannah corrected, closing the notepad and placing it and the pen onto the desk. "Wrong doing is not resolute. It can be persuaded to move. You lament and pay penance even now, Cas. Even after you paid your dues and saved us."

Cas stared at her, hard. He gave her a small smile. "You are a good friend, Hannah."

She smiled, a little self-pleased, a blush curling on her cheeks. "Thank you. Despite what you may think, or what to believe, you are a good leader."

"But it's not forever," Cas said, a little too quickly.

"Of course not," Hannah agreed, her haste obvious as well.

"How's the hunt for the tablet going?" Cas asked, changing the subject awkwardly.

If Hannah sensed the uncomfortableness of the situation, it didn't show. "Not well. We have Angels on earth tracking it down, but the world is immense without our wings."

Cas looked concerned. "How much have you searched?"

Hannah cleared her throat and clenched her jaw. "We've nearly finished Tokyo."

"Where did you start?"

Hannah raised an eyebrow and sighed. "Tokyo."

"Damn it," Cas cursed.

There was a knock on the door, and Cas took to calling the next angel in for their interview.

"Ajax," the Angel introduced itself, walking into the room after Cas had allowed it entrance. "Applying for passage between heaven and Earth."

* * *

There were no other cases, and the bunker seemed like a better place to wait around and see if anything else popped up than a rundown motel.

Dean was sitting in the kitchen when Sam came to find him, shuffling nervously in. Dean glanced up as Sam entered and offered a coffee cup.

"Drink?"

"Sure," Sam replied, sitting across from Dean on the breakfast bar. The kitchen was steaming with the preparations for the evenings meal, a reason for Dean to hide himself away in the kitchen and a reason for Sam to hunker down in the library.

Dean span the mug over the countertop and Sam caught it, leaving it before himself to cool.

"Want anything else?" Dean offered, grabbing a biscuit for himself out of the jar that always seemed to be empty whenever Sam went to inspect it.

"Nah, I'm good," Sam said. His fingers clenched around the handle to the mug and he was glad he had it to distract himself. He cleared his throat. "Hey, uh, Dean, we gotta tall about what Crowley meant."

"After the crossroads demon fiasco?" Dean asked, passing Sam a biscuit anyway. "Sure. Shoot."

"Well, what do you think he meant?" Sam asked. Dean could see how surprised he was that his brother was so keen to talk about it. Truthfully, Dean _was _worried. He hadn't ceased being worried, and since Death's visit, everything was pushed into hyper drive.

"A full set, right?" Dean guessed. "So, he was talkin' about your soul...so maybe he has other souls kept down in Hell?"

"Like the other hunter's souls?" Sam frowned. He made a bemused face before taking a drink of his coffee. "Well, that would make sense."

"Wait, what?"

"Remember, uh, Heaven?" Sam asked, and Dean nodded, over vigorously.

"Oh sure, yeah. The whole literal trip down memory lane."

"Sure," Sam allowed, sides of his mouth trying to smile. But he clamped it down with the seriousness of the conversation. "The only souls we saw were Pamela's and Ash's. The only souls we _know _are in Heaven are Pamela, Ash and Bobby, assuming that Bobby made it to Heaven."

"They could have made it by now," Dean said, but that wouldn't make sense. Why would Crowley say anything if the souls had escaped. Perhaps it had something to do with what Death had been saying about the recent flimsiness of the veil, but Dean didn't think so. if the Harvelle's and all the rest had freed themselves, then Crowley wouldn't have brought it up in the first place.

Sam followed his line of thought exactly. "I mean, I guess...demons lie."

Not Crowley though. Crowley hadn't lied to them for years. He'd omitted truths and done heinous things, but after being nearly cured, he'd been close to them, he'd been _truthful_.

But some of these omissions, especially one like this, was enough to ignite a full blown hatred for the demon.

"What I don't get," Sam said finally. "Is why he mentioned them at all. I mean, now we _know_."

"He might have thought we were too dumb to get it," Dean suggested.

Sam shook his head. "No way. What else could it have been?"

"Gee, I don't know Sam," Dean almost snapped, all for just cutting their losses and moving to make the next punch land. "Does it matter?"

"It's just, he gives my soul back, he saves an underling demon, he apologises for sending us to Abaddon, and now this..." Sam trailed off, waving his hands to try and enunciate his point. "Seriously dude, you don't think there's something a little off about this?"

"Probably," Dean shrugged. "I just don't really care."

* * *

Cas finally shed his responsibilities one day to Romeo. The angel was almost _too _excited to be deciding on who was to stay in Heaven and who would have the freedom to move between. Of all the host, though, Cas trusted his judgement only second to Hannah and a thousand miles ahead of his own. Hannah was his friend, and he needed her to come with him to where he was going next. He needed her soft frown and clever judgement.

He needed her support.

Cas hadn't been able to visit Robert Singer's heaven since he had arrived. Administrative duties had kept him on permanent lock down, and now that things were beginning to even out, Cas finally had the time to visit him.

Bobby's house was different in Heaven than it was on earth. It was cleaner, and the paint job was better. Cas assumed that this was what the house looked like before Bobby's wife had died, but upon entering, there were moment's captured in photographs that told of more recent times.

"Hello?"

Cas edged through the door slowly, making his way to the study. He looked up and almost felt affronted when he didn't see the Devils Trap. The house almost seemed naked without it, even with how ridiculous it would be to have something meant for demons in a plane of existence purely meant for rest.

The man came out down the stairs, looking curious and almost pale. He walked slowly, so that Cas and Hannah had to wait patiently for him to hit the bottom of the stairs.

"Cas?"

"Hello, Bobby," Cas greeted warmly, itching to stride forward and hug the man.

Bobby looked flabbergasted, looking first at Hannah, and then back to Cas again. "I mean, holy hell, _Cas_."

"Hello," Cas greeted again. "I apologise for not coming sooner. I was not dead this time."

Bobby barked a laugh. "Well, that's a relief. Who's the lady friend?"

"I am Hannah," she greeted. "Castiel's second in command."

Bobby frowned at that. "Ash thought he heard somethin' big was goin' down in the centre, but not even he could see what was happenin'. You rulin' heaven now or something?"

"Or something," Cas admonished vaguely. "Now, I have a question. Time is of the essence."

"Shoot," Bobby said, and Cas tried not to feel bad when Bobby tried not to look crestfallen that he wasn't staying for longer.

"The Harvelle's," Cas said. "Do you know where they are?"

Bobby's face turned grave. "You lookin' for 'em?"

"Yes," Hannah supplied. "Dean prayed to Castiel. He said that Crowley may have mentioned that he was holding them."

Bobby went quiet. "He might be. They certainly ain't here, or, if they are, Ash can't find 'em."

Cas turned to Hannah. "We could go to their Heaven. They might just be there and dormant."

Hannah seemed to think it was as pointless as Cas did, but she nodded anyway.

She made to move out of the house, but before she could, Bobby caught Cas's arm. "Wait."

Cas turned back nervously. "Uh, yes?"

Bobby wasn't a man who had a way with words. He was all bravado and tough love on the outside, and soft and warm on the in. He could have asked Cas a thousand things, he could have asked half a dozen big truths and millions of smaller ones. He could have asked how the world was doing, he could have asked if anyone had started building on where his home had burnt down.

But Cas knew what he'd ask before he said it.

"The boys," his voice was gruff. "Are they good? Are they alright?"

"Sam and Dean have been through much since you last saw them," Cas answered him truthfully. "But now they are ok, and miss you and all the others in Heaven very much."

Bobby nodded, tearing his eyes away.

Then he called out again. "Cas, while you're looking, make sure you get Rufus home, ok?"

"Your friend?" Cas asked, before stepping out the door to join Hannah.

Bobby nodded. "Can't find him either. Can't find anyone."

"I will look for them," Cas promised. And he meant it.

* * *

Even as their wings were gone on Earth, not so was it in Heaven. This was their home, they could maintain a constant movement throughout it and never get tired, never find the edge.

After speeding through some alternate layer in the forms they were created in, they arrived back in the forms of the vessels they'd possessed after first coming to earth.

She looked around. "And this is the Harvelle heaven?"

"Yes," Cas said shortly, looking around.

Hannah breathed out, eyes wide with appreciation. "It's beautiful."

Cas agreed with that. It was very aesthetically pleasing, with Autumn leaves ushering in the air, and a faint scent of daffodil's and springtime despite the obvious difference in seasons.

The young girl, blonde and in pigtails that ran passed didn't own the Heaven though, she was a memory. She giggled as she dashed passed, looking up at someone unseen and dashing off, little girl arms pumping as she ran.

But Hannah sensed it as well. "It's empty."

"I know," Cas agreed, tense. He looked around, for surely it couldn't have been, surely they would be here somewhere. Because it wasn't just that he needed to know for Dean, it wasn't that he needed to know for the sake of the earth, he wanted to know for _himself_. They were his friends, and he missed them.

And this Heaven was empty.

Hannah frowned, Cas could tell she was frustrated with the little information they'd been given, by Dean and by Bobby. "So they're claimed by Hell? Or are they trapped on earth?"

"But Hell _cannot _take those that it has no claim to," Cas murmured, almost ignoring Hannah as he turned, erratic in a circle, reaching out, trying to get a sense that souls had ever been here. "That is the law, and that is the way that this system works."

"So perhaps they are trapped as spirits on earth," Hannah suggested airily. "When did they die? Might they just be caught up in the wrongness of this past year?"

"Perhaps," Cas considered, turning to face her.

Hannah closed her eyes. "Jo and Ellen, right? I can sense them, their essence in this Heaven. Mother Daughter soul mates are rare."

"The rarest," Cas agreed, his voice was barely above a whisper. "The most precious."

"They were dear to you," Hannah stated. Cas gave her credit where it was due, she'd learnt to read him well, in those long days, those eternities trying to save Heaven, keep it up right.

"They were dear to all who knew them," Cas supplied, and Hannah decided that that would have to do.

"Who else do we need to check?"

"Rufus, the Winchester's, Caleb Fisher, Jim Murphy, Deanna Campbell..." Cas grimaced. "It's an extensive list."

"And they are?"

"Hunter's who have died in the past 100 years," Cas relayed, and he reached for Hannah's hand. She took it and they atomised, rushing through the heavens to find the next one they needed to check.

Rufus's log cabin in the mountains was empty, Caleb's villa down by the seaside was abandoned. Mary Winchester's vineyard was without grapes and dying, John Winchester's suburban home had a layer of dust that coated everything. Jim Murphy's church rang empty with forgotten bells, Isaac had the looped memory of a little girl playing with her mother, Tamara, untouched.

"They're not _anywhere_," Cas finally gasped, arriving back in the centre of Heaven. He and Hannah claimed an empty room. His hands shook and his face was white and clammy. Hannah, while not as affected, was far quieter than usual. Her blue eyes had lost their spark, her lips drained to the colour of her skin.

"Abandoned heavens," Hannah murmured. She held her arms around herself. "Empty homes."

"It does make you wonder," Cas said, and when he smiled, it was genuine. "How Heavens are formed. Is it with birth or death? Or do they always exist, the perfect amount of Heavens for the extent of God's plan?"

"Perhaps now is not the time for a discussion on philosophy," Hannah said mildly, coming to grips with the situation faster than Cas. She turned all business, snapping him into a working mindset. If he dwelled too long on what that sort of loneliness felt like, he'd go mad. "Do the Winchester's know?"

"Perhaps we should speak to one last person," Cas suggested. "Ash. He'll know. he knows more about Heaven than I do."

"I'm sure that that was an exaggeration," Hannah said. "But if you're sure, we should go now." Her face softened with compassion and the arms that still surrounded her dropped slightly, hand to elbow, hand to waist. "The brothers deserve to know that we suspect they are right."

* * *

Cas and Hannah stole a car.

Hannah looked like she was about to faint at the illegality of the situation, and Cas would have laughed, had they not needed to get to the impala as soon as possible. The portal to the graveyard near the Bunker had been a saviour, both touching down inside it seconds after seeing Ash.

* * *

_"Ash," Cas greeted. "You don't know me—"_

_"Sure I do," the man interrupted, slamming his computer shut. "You're Sam and Dean's friend, right?"_

* * *

"Quickly," Hannah breathed, looking around. Cas felt bad about stealing from a mourner, but there was nothing else for it. He was sure that if he explained the situation, they'd let him take the car anyway.

The door popped and Cas climbed into the driver's seat. Hannah copied his lead, throwing herself into the passenger's seat.

"Seatbelt," Cas reminded her.

And she buckled in.

* * *

_"I got a theory or two," Ash responded. "Nothing concrete yet. Why?"_

_Hannah shared a surprised look with Cas. They'd hoped for something, but they could have never dreamt of this._

_"Sam and Dean are tracking down a potential lead," Cas said, not wanting to inspire any assumptions by the computer technician in front of him. "Why don't you tell me what you think, and I'll see if any match."_

* * *

"Drive carefully," Hannah ordered, holding onto the armrest as Cas gunned it for the Bunker. He had a vague recollection of where it was, but he was certain that he would find the way. He _had _to find the way.

"I'll get you there in one piece," Cas assured her. "Don't worry."

* * *

_Ash was bemused, but he told them. "Ok, so Bobby came up here, and he said he could remember maybe 30 years of hell, when he was down there for a year earth time. That means he must have been somewhere else, right? I mean, the theories a decade to a month."_

_"Right," Cas agreed. "And Crowley wiped his memory?"_

_"Somethin' like that," Ash agreed. Then he shrugged. "I dunno though. I mean, he coulda just been repressin' it or something. Sorry Cassie, it's not much to go on."_

_"That's ok," Hannah piped in. "Thank you so much, Ash."_

* * *

Cas swerved around the corner and Hannah's hands went white around where they were clutching the seatbelt. She looked like she'd be yelling at him if she weren't too scared to move and stuff up the polarity of the car or something.

"We're nearly there," Cas assured her. Then it struck him that he'd have his phone. He pushed his hand into his pocket and threw the device at Hannah. "Quick, call them. Tell them we're on our way. If they ask, just say we'll tell them when we get there."

Hannah complied, moving through the phone quickly, finding a number and pressing onto it.

Cas could hear the dial turns, and his heart flipped when he heard the crackle of someone picking up.

"Dean? It's Hannah."

There was a murmuring.

Hannah's voice was less worried and more snarky when she spoke next. "The _angel_."

Cas hid a smile and focused on the road.

"Cas and I."

More murmuring.

"News of the souls."

She cut off more softened words with a harsh, "We'll tell you everything when we get there."

There was another undercurrent of dialogue.

She turned to Cas. "How far away are we?"

* * *

_"No problem," Ash said. "You take care of those souls, yeah? They're precious."_

_"Do you miss Ellen and Jo too?" Hannah guessed._

_Ash frowned. "Uh, yeah. How'd you know—"_

_"Castiel said that all who meet them love them very much."_

_Ash turned, surprised to Cas. "You knew Jo and Ellen?"_

_Cas confirmed it with a small, birdlike dip of his head._

_Ash smiled fondly, probably at the memories of the time spent in a bar much like the one that was his heaven. "Yeah. They were hard people to hate."_

* * *

"We're about five minutes."

Hannah relayed the information before snapping the phone off. She caught a gasp in her throat as he swerved around another corner.

"_Careful_!"

* * *

As soon as Cas and Hannah knocked on the door of the Bunker, Dean and Sam were ready for them. Sam ran up to meet them, boots hitting the stairs heavily as he did. Dean followed after him, allowing enough room that Cas and Hannah would be able to fit passed them if the need called for it.

Sam pulled open the door and Hannah and Cas walked out, coming onto the balcony.

"Hey," Sam said quickly.

Hannah looked a little breathless, but unchanged since the last time Dean had seen her. Cas was similar, he had his new trench coat and suit on and was looking worriedly from each brother to the next.

"Hello, Sam," Cas greeted.

Hannah stood stock still, gazing at him, before pulling him in for a hug.

Dean realised that this was the first moment she had to see him alive since the Abaddon chapter and he watched, an ache deep and turning in his chest, as understanding, Sam hugged her back. It was the desperate ache of two friends. It was love and loss and life. Between and angel, and a human.

She drew back and looked at the ground, Sam watching her almost expressionlessly, but Dean saw how touched his brother was. Hannah smoothed hair back from in front of her hair and idly picked at the fringe of her vessel's hair. She was embarrassed. If she'd just looked up, just seen Sam's tiny, warm smile, she would've learnt that she didn't have to be.

That Sam was never anything but thankful.

And never anything but forgiving.

"What's happened?" Sam asked, his voice was a little rough.

"You were right," Cas said grimly. "Crowley has souls of high value in hell. He's keeping them somewhere, and we're not sure where."

"Who does he have?" Dean asked, leaning against the railing of the balcony.

"Among others? Your parents, Jo and Ellen, Rufus, Pastor Jim Murphy," Cas let his sentence cast off. "And who knows how many others."

"Because they're Hunters?" Sam guessed. He nodded working through the information. "That's why he said 'full set'."

"Right," Cas agreed. Then he looked at Sam intently. Dean didn't like that look, not directed at Sam, not one bit. "Sam, what do you remember from dying?"

Sam stood up straighter and pulled away. "I, uh, nothing much. Just a moment before I was _not_."

"What was that?"

Sam shook his head helplessly. "White light."

Cas looked unconvinced, but Sam swore that that was all he could remember.

Cas turned to Hannah. "His mind has been wiped. We should trigger it back."

Hannah, who'd overcome her embarrassment, nodded resolutely and extended her hand, poising her fingers over Sam's head.

Sam took a surprised step back. "Hey, hey!"

"Cas!" Dean snapped, moving in. "Erased, maybe, or _repressed_. What the hell are you doing?"

"We need to know for sure where Crowley is keeping the souls," Cas said, as if it were obvious. "Sam knows, he just isn't aware yet."

"Cas," Sam said, his voice weak.

"No way," Dean growled. Sam took up an irritated stance and Dean decided to change his tune. "You gotta _ask _him first, man."

"Wait, what?" Sam asked, turning to his brother in surprise.

"There's _no time_, Dean," Cas insisted. "If Ash's theory is correct—"

"Ash?" Sam asked.

"Then what Sam remembers might be _imperative _to getting the Hunters' souls back!"

"_Yes _doesn't take all that long to say," Dean countered.

"Sam," Cas implored, turning to the younger Winchester. "If the memories are too much, I'll wipe them again, but we _have _to know."

Hannah watched it all unfold a little unsurely, her hand had fallen to her side, and the fingers that would have pressed onto Sam's forehead now twitched against each other.

"Sorry Cas," Dean snapped. "I just remember the _last _time you tried to bring memories back."

"Dean," Sam cut him off, and he looked a little shocked that Dean had delved into that particular area of their history. Dean crumbled a little as he realised that he'd gone too far. But that didn't stop him crossing his arms over in an angry snap and glaring at Cas while Sam slowly looked from Hannah to Cas and then to Dean.

Where he paused. His eyes were probing and thankful. _It's ok. I'm ok._

"It's ok," Sam allowed, moving unconsciously back to where he'd been standing before. Before he closed his eyes, he looked across at Dean, who was fighting bitter unhappiness.

_It's what I want._

Sam closed his eyes, and Hannah pressed the tips of her fingers ever-so-gently to the centre of his forehead.

* * *

_Thanks guys. You're all super awesome. Don't change and stuff._

_Don't forget to review! And favourite! And send me your first born! Haha what_

_Name of the next chapter: __**Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood**_


	7. Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

_Aloha girls and boys,_

_Here I am again, off on another adventure with S and D, fighting crime. Lookin' hot. ~the dream~_

_Please note that this fic is very much a 23 chapter long coping mechanism. It's 90% fix it with 10% that was rude. Characters will be coming back to life, characters will be reintroduced (ie. Missouri and Jody with Alex) and new characters will be created to fill the holes left at the end of Colette and the end of s9._

_*Researched, Rewatch, New Tags (see bottom) due to massive spoiler spiders. Darn those spiders! _

* * *

"_So show me family_

_all the blood that I would bleed_

_I don't know where I belong_

_I don't know where I went wrong."_

_-Ho, Hey! _the Lumineers

* * *

As it is in Heaven, so must it be in Hell.

In Heaven, the portals to earth is like stepping out of an elevator, like taking a deep breath or submerging yourself in water. It was easy. It was a caress. It was a stairway, built just for them.

Hell was Heaven's polar opposite in many ways, and this was no exception. Crawling out of the pit was an expanse of sharp edges and ruined stones, burning fiery ash that clogged through the air that you breathed as you reached for the stars, clinging to the side of a barren cliff face.

There was a reason demons came to earth. There was a reason that they forsook the only home they could remember for the only home they'd ever known.

And it there was something to be said that the climb was worth the world that awaited them. Or perhaps that it escaped the world that they were subjected to.

There was a reason exorcism was a punishment. There was a _reason _demons clasped to the lives they created on earth.

And there was a reason that doorways, like the ones that Dean and Sam were investigating, were so heavily guarded.

"_Shit_," Sam cursed, ducking behind the tree stump, squishing tightly to Dean so that they both fit in the hiding space.

Dean turned. All he could make out of his brother in the gloom of the woods was the profile of his face and the glint in his eyes from the moon pushing through the canopy overhead.

The woods they were in were removed from people and civilisation as a whole. It'd taken nearly a day of hiking to reach it, and even then it'd been night before they found the exact spot where the entrance to hell was located.

"How many?" Dean asked, whispering, not daring to copy Sam and turn to scope out what they were up against.

Dean felt Sam shrug against his shoulder. His voice was soothing and low. "I couldn't tell."

"Guess," Dean snapped shortly, his voice hovering at a hiss.

"Five, six," Sam answered shortly. "Too many."

"Smelt us yet?"

Sam shook his head. "Wind's on our side. We should be ok for a few more minutes at least."

Dean growled, frustrated. "What the hell are we supposed to do?"

"We could call Cas?" Sam half suggested.

Dean shook his head quickly. "No way, there's no time. Anyway, you know as well as I do, there aren't any portals to Heaven around here. Too dangerous to be so close to Hell."

Sam look tempted to turn around and scope out the Hell Hounds guarding the doorway, but he contained it, breathing heavily, frustrated out of his nose.

"You good?" Dean asked instinctively, and winced when Sam's forehead creased with annoyance.

"I'm_ fine_," Sam snapped. Hannah unleashing the memories of what had happened to Sam while he was with Crowley wasn't the reason his brother had fallen unconscious after relating, breezily, all that Crowley had told him and all that he'd seen. Hannah had dug a little too deep, knocked down the walls a little too indelicately, and so all the pain that he'd witnessed while dead and trapped with all the other screaming ghosts had come back, full throttle.

It wasn't the Cage, of course, and the pain was easily siphoned off and healed, but it didn't stop the memories of his time taking a desperate root. The very worst ones were wrenched out with only sensations left, and Hannah had grimaced as she paid her penance, absorbing the memories.

Sam had told her that she hadn't had to do it, when he came to and saw how pale and shaking she was. Dean, on the other hand, wasn't sure if he forgave her and Cas just yet.

Because Sam's fingers trembled as he reached for Ruby's knife. They stilled as his knuckles clenched around it, but Dean had seen.

Dean closed his eyes, took a sharp breath and stowed it away for future conversation, or future leverage.

"Ok," Sam murmured. "What's the plan?"

"Run?" Dean asked back softly, not joking in the slightest. Because, honestly, Hell Hounds, his favourite. And the two of them vs. _one _hell hound was bad enough, but cutting them down to them vs. _five _was pushing it too far out of reasonability.

Sam made a face in the gloom, and Dean only recognised the slope of his shoulders as Sam's face turned to him and was completely cut off by shadow. "Seriously, we can't go back now."

Dean swallowed the building panic in his chest and forced himself to deliver the line seamlessly. "I don't wanna see you _dead_ again, ok?"

Sam was silent for a beat. "Ok."

"We set up camp—" Sam groaned quietly, slumping down in the dirt. Dean shared his sentiment about camping, but it was either that or try and get into Hell without back up. "—we get Cas, Hannah, maybe some other angels to help us out, and then we scope out Hell."

"We wouldn't be able to find our way through anyway," Sam rationalised, and Dean nearly sighed with relief as his brother started to come on side.

"Exactly," Dean agreed. "Anyway, scouting mission, right?"

"Right," Sam whispered, nodding his head, body shifting next to Dean as he sat up a little straighter, legs pushing themselves into a better position to sneak off. "How far away do we need to get?"

"Five miles?" Dean guessed.

Sam let out another groan.

"Hey, I don't like it anymore than you, Princess."

The wind pushed back Sam's hair, and both brothers froze. It was an unassuming breeze, sneaking passed the trees and along the hill, creeping along with the clouds, masking the ground with whisks of air from a different end of the forest.

A low growl pattered along, like a line of dominos, each of the Hounds catching onto their scent at a different moment.

Sam was frozen next to Dean, and Dean could feel his brothers heart pumping, mismatched to his.

"_Shit_," he swore, and before the Hounds had a chance to fully comprehend what they were smelling, he was pushing Sam up, grabbing onto his shoulder and forcing him in front of him, shoving through the woods after Sam as they _ran_, as fast as they could, as far as they could. Their packs lay forgotten onto the ground, left so that they wouldn't hinder the boys as they moved.

"Left, left, left!" Sam ordered, running to the right, and because Dean needed to trust his brother, because this was just another thing they needed to work on, he turned left.

And he regretted it.

He sprinted on, the roots in the darkness leapt up before he could aptly see where he needed to place his feet, but there was no room to slow down his pace. Every footfall felt redundant, every pant, every strain from his lungs. The growling reverberated throughout the forest and hissed at the back of his neck. He didn't know if the hounds were behind him, whether they were in front, whether they'd moved at all. All he knew was that if he turned to see if they were following, they would be. And in the time it took to yell out and turn back, he'd already be dead.

A paw hit the ground with a thud behind him and he melted on the speed, feeling his chest burn and his legs _snap _with the energy and the adrenalin but not _daring _to slow. Because you couldn't outrun Hell Hounds when they were coming after you. If you sold your soul, that was probably the way you were going to go. But these Hounds weren't collecting him and Sam, they were guarding their home.

And so _maybe _if they got far away enough, and _maybe _if the Hounds weren't smart enough to recognise them, and _maybe _if he could maintain the speed that was drilling holes through his lungs and crunching against his ankles every time he took a misjudged step, then they could get away, survive this.

His breathing strained again as he thought of Sam.

Beside him and ahead of him the darkness was complete, and the only sense he had of depth was the trees that swerved in front of him and the bloodcurdling calls of the pack as they raced after the two brothers.

Dean heard a huff and a paw behind him and sped up again, but this time his legs weren't burning, they were thudding with exhaustion, deadening and hardening, and the arms that had been spread to help him balance over the terrain were close by his sides, pressing into his rib cage as he fought to keep his pace up. His breathing was ragged and inconsistent, and the pressure was turning his eyes fuzzy and unreliable. He took precious moments out of the race as he edged around a tree he hadn't seen before it was almost too late.

"DEAN!"

Dean's breath was clouded with the cold as he and Sam ran into each other. Sam was breathing as heavily as he, his knife a little soiled by the black blood of a Hell Hound.

"You get one?" Dean demanded through gasps as they stopped to see each other. They'd sprinted for nearly half a mile, and Dean had to pray that it was enough. The howls still echoed throughout the landscape, but there was no breath on the back of his neck, or any growling in the air across from him. Perhaps they _had _done it, perhaps it had been enough.

"Yeah," Sam gasped back, wiping his knife on his pants. He gestured to a scratch on his neck and a rip along the waist of his shirt. "Nearly took me out."

"You need to go on more runs," Dean advised, professing his sweaty and overheated, yet untouched body.

Sam huffed a laugh, bemused, pushing his damp hair back with his free hand. "Right, yeah, thanks for that. Because you're such a Michael Phelps."

"Dude, Michael Phelps is a _swimmer_."

Sam looked offended. "Obviously. I was just testing you."

Dean nodded. "_Right_."

A howl echoed out, answered by three more. Sam stilled very quickly next to him, and Dean reached out to grab onto Sam's shirt as the sound chattered down his spine. Sam didn't protest, leaning into the warmth as another howl echoed out, this time closer.

"So, uh, do Hell Hounds howl when they've given up a hunt, or when they've trapped their prey?" Dean asked quickly, glancing around him as the world went quiet, the growls that had been near constant since they'd arrived cut deathly short.

"No idea," Sam breathed back, jerking his head around, strung and vigilant.

Dean shook his head. "Man, I hate Hell Hounds."

"Should we run?" Sam ignored him, looking the way they'd came, and then to the area of the park they'd been running to.

"Just a moment," Dean hesitated, listening out.

"I really think running would be a good idea," Sam insisted, still jerking around, eyes flicking from one corner to the other.

"Dammit Sam, just a second."

"Dean!" Sam snapped. "I don't know about you, but I'd like to make that five mile radius pretty _fucking soon_."

"We gotta see how far they'll go from the entrance," Dean stated, adamant, refusing to move even as Sam tugged on his arm. "How far are we?"

Sam sighed and dropped Dean arm, no less vigilant, but turning his gait from flight to a defensive position. "About one kilometre."

"American, thanks Canada."

"Two thirds of a mile," Sam recited. "Or there about."

A growl picked up again, followed by another, and another. The pack seemed to be everywhere, in the trees, in the dirt. They flowed along the earth with the wind that had betrayed them.

But more importantly, they sounded from where they were running to.

"Not far enough," Dean said. He tugged Sam back to where they'd originally been running to. "_Fuck_."

"We can't—"

"We _have _to," Dean led the way through the undergrowth, Sam allowing himself to be dragged alone. "Sam, we gotta—"

The growling space of air in front of them told them exactly where one of the four remaining Hell Hounds was located. Dean ignored it, not letting Sam stop as he altered his course slightly, aiming away from the Hound as he slammed through the woods.

"Dean!"

"_Run_!"

Sam shut up and obliged, sprinting to catch up to Dean, so that they were side by side as they forced their way through the trees.

"A path!" Sam managed between catches of air.

Dean thrilled at their good fortune and sprinted down it, the trail was far from the path that they'd started on and followed for the start of the day, but it pointed in the direction they were going, and now it was just sprinting, just pouring energy into their limbs as they made their way to safety.

They stopped another few minutes down the road, Sam leaning over and panting as they listened again for the tell tale signs of the hunt nearby.

"You think we've lost 'em?" Sam managed, knife pressed against his thigh where his hands were poised, supporting him as he looked up to Dean. Dean was standing stoically, trying to take in deep breaths in the stage that they'd have to run again.

The silence was less eerie here, and the usual sounds of nature came to haunt them. The bustle in the undergrowth was probably a rat, the call from the trees a nocturnal bird, and as displeasing as they were, they had no threat to the brothers lives.

Dean turned to Sam, and then crushed heavily against the ground.

The snarl of the Hell Hound forced itself into his brain, thrumming with the shock and the redness of falling to the ground, the dog squashing him beneath it.

Dean heard Sam let out a strangled cry of despair, and then the weight was gone, but the noise wasn't.

Dean gave himself two heartbeats to get over the hot wetness on his chest and the needles smashed into his ribs, before he forced himself up.

Sam was fighting the dog, but as valiant as his little brother was, the Hound was stronger. They tossed once before Sam was thrown to the ground, the Hound ripping down his brothers chest. Sam screamed in pain, blood throbbing in his mouth as the cuts etched themselves down his chest.

Dean felt his fingers begin to shake and everything went quiet. The world didn't matter, the other Hell Hounds didn't matter, because Sam was _dying_.

Sammy, no, _no and no and nothing and don't you dare leave me, you son of a bitch._

Sam's hand flexed out and dropped the knife. Dean flashed down and grabbed it, throwing the Hell Hound off with all that he had, tossing it to the ground and feeling for the throat. With an expert swing, he sliced through its neck, the knife giving through the muscle and tissue and bone. Black blood spurted out in horrifying lumps, coating the ground where it lay to die.

Dean ignored it and dived for Sam, who was still breathing heavily, face paling as the blood loss got to him.

"_No_," Dean insisted, as if it might change anything. "No, Sam, please, _no_."

Sam just gasped, more blood making its way to the corners of his mouth. Death's warning came back to Dean and his eyes welled up in frustration. Because if that was it, then this was the end...the end of _everything_.

Sam's hand weakly came up to Dean's arm and his eyes said what his voice couldn't. _It's gonna be ok._

But, oh God please, not like this. Never like this. Sam had promised, promised they'd grow old. Promised that his passing would be natural and normal, and that Dean would survive though it. This pain, the pain that felt all too like barbed wire cutting into flesh...there was no way to survive this. There was _no way to survive this._

"Place pressure on the wound," a voice ordered.

Dean would have started at the voice, but the new comer and anything else the world could throw at him held hardly anything over him anymore.

"_Hey_," it snapped, and Dean looked up to see a woman standing next to him. She had blonde hair and a hiking pack on her back. She tossed it down and squatted next to him, kneeling next to Sam. "Pressure, on the wound, _now_."

Dean followed her orders blindly, reaching for the deepest part of Sam's wounds and pushing his hands hard down on his brothers chest. Blood welled beneath his fingers, throbbing and warm. The ripped shirt Sam had been wearing was mostly in tatters now, from when he had first taken out a hell hound to now.

"Good," she said, unzipping her pack and reaching in. She turned her eye harshly to Dean. "_Pressure._"

"Sam..."

"Your friend needs help," she said, her voice was constant and reliable, comforting in its order. "Pressure."

Dean focused all his attention on the blood, pushing down as hard as he could. "The...blood, he's lost too much—"

"Hey, focus, ok?" she said, bringing him back to reality. She had pulled out some gauze and a dangerous looking entanglement of tubes.

"What's his blood type?"

"Ah," Dean shook himself. "I don't...we never found out."

The woman nodded her head slowly. Then she gave a grim smile. "Good thing I'm O- right?"

"Wait, what?"

"You need to focus," she reminded him, pulling out a pair of syringes, where they were held in containers that looked like they were keeping the needles clean. "You gotta keep the pressure up, or there isn't anything I can do."

Dean exchanged the dominant hand, relying entirely on the left as he reached for the gauze. In the darkness it took a moment for him to locate it, and the shaking that struck tremors through his body didn't help. But he grabbed it, dots of Sam's blood scattering among the dirt. The bleeding, thank whatever entity was watching over them, was a lot worse than the wound actually was. It would have killed him if it had been allowed to bleed out, but the shallowed end of the claw marks were already clotting.

"Who are you?" Dean asked, somewhat dazed, and only now starting to understand the oddity of a random woman coming across them so deep into the woods, just _happening _to have the medical supplies they needed to keep Sam going.

"I'm a hiker," she answered easily, not looking up as she prepped hers and Sam's arm for needles.

Dean felt proper suspicions start to surmount as the situation with Sam started to unfold at a bearable pace. "At this time of the night?"

The woman shot him a glance. "Same goes to you, Adonis."

Dean shut up at that, and focused everything he had on staunching the bleeding. The woman glanced up, hissed and shook her head. "No, no, I was wrong. You're going to have to stitch it up."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a throwaway needle and thread. Dean nearly breathed a sigh of relief, this he could deal with, this he had dealt with before.

"Where?" Dean looked down at the chest he was barely holding together.

"14 along the left, 15 in the middle and then..." she paused and scrutinised the wound. "14 on the right."

"That doesn't seem like much," Dean protested.

The woman shrugged. "The wound at the other end isn't as deep."

Sam murmured indecipherably and Dean winced at the pain he was about to be causing. After the woman had finished sterilising the needle, she passed it to Dean carefully, black thread already cast through the loop at the top.

"You right?"

"Yeah," Dean said, and willed, with everything he had, with the pained moaning of his brother as he and a stranger fought for his life, for his fingers to stop shaking. And then, ignoring his brothers keen of pain as the needle entered his skin, proceeded to follow the ladies advice.

She had finished wiping the skin of both her and Sam's inner arms and was soothing Sam's arm down as she looked for a vein. His stillness was becoming more and more necessary, but more and more frightening. He gasped with pain when Dean pressed on with sewing closed the wounds, (wounds that he could have _sworn _were worse than they looked at that moment), but other than that, there was nothing.

Terrifying, deadly stillness.

"When you're finished with that," she said, holding both needles ready for the transfusion. "I'll need your help."

Dean nodded and went about sewing up the last of the wound, marvelling at how much better they looked than when he had first seen them.

"Hey," she passed him a bottle of alcohol. He didn't check the label, and just went to pour it over Sam's chest. Sam hissed and seized as the stinging liquid killed off the chance of infection, but Dean had to look away as a tear of pain managed its way through Sam's lashes. Dean placed the gauze on his brothers wound, hoping that it and the alcohol would be enough to stave off fever and illness.

They both sat for a bit, as alcohol mixed with blood ran off Sam's body like tiny creeks. Dean nearly swayed, the exertion from the running and the constant beating of his heart while Sam had been sick _exhausting _him.

"Ok, quickly," she said, moving expertly, fingers swift as he inserted both needles in, first hers into a vein on the inside of her left elbow, and then his onto the inside of his right. Taking a deep breath she passed him an old fashioned looking pump. "I need you to pull it, and don't stop until I tell you, ok?"

"Right," Dean nodded, a little dazed. He picked up the contraption and stared at it a little unsurely. It looked like something that came out of a middle ages horror film torture scene. "Wait, seriously?"

The woman looked irritable, and even with the light, he found himself able to read her face better. She had a regal face, high cheekbones and slightly upturned eyes. Her hair dusted over a pair of pointedly arched eyebrows that were pinched together in annoyance. "_Yes_. Now, hurry up."

"Seriously, when was this issued?" Dean asked, still distracted, slowly pulling the lever and watching the blood pool from the woman, who was watching it grimly, to his brother, who was lying still, but who had his eyes open, blinking every now and again, lost in the fogginess of all his pain.

"1066," she deadpanned.

Dean looked up at her and paused for a moment.

"Keep going! My _goodness_."

"Sorry," Dean muttered, pulling back the pump. Now all that was left was Sam's harsh breaths against the air and the whiz of the pump as it was pulled up and down.

"Ok," she said, her voice was not weak, she didn't sound scared, she was just able to watch calmly as her blood went down a plastic tube and into someone else. "That should be enough."

Dean paused and she helped him disable it. He sat up obligingly, waiting for her to tell him something else to do.

She looked at him, her face was warm, but tired. "Go comfort your friend," she ordered, laying out her equipment as she washed it and started to put it away. "I'll be with you in a moment."

Dean moved slowly to Sam's head and placed a hand on his little brothers forehead. He eased his hand back so that it rested comfortingly on the hairline and looked down at Sam, giving him something to focus on.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean smiled. "How you doing?"

Sam tried to swallow, before he blinked lazily at Dean. "'ore."

"Yeah, buddy, I know," Dean moved his hand from his brothers head, resting it on the sternum, just above where the Hell Hound had sunk it's claws. "You're all good now, right?"

Sam murmured agreement, eyes not leaving Dean.

"That's good," the woman said, and Dean looked across at her, confused. "Keep him awake, give him something to focus on. We're not out of the woods yet."

"Will I need to stay up to monitor him?" Dean asked, his voice was weirdly calm.

The woman gave him a small smile. "Would you be able to sleep anyway if I said no?"

Dean acknowledged her point with a tilt of the head, before looking back down to Sam. He clenched his hand, because as much as he wanted to thank her, and trust her, and believe that she'd done everything out of the goodness of her heart, she was in the middle of nowhere, just as he needed her.

Not only in the middle of nowhere either, in the middle of nowhere near a gate to Hell.

He looked up at her, all semblance of companionship gone. If she noticed the change of tone when she glanced at him between stowing everything back into her pack, she didn't say.

"Who are you?"

The woman paused. Her hand stilled on a pair of scissors, before she continued, packing it up into her bag. "I told you. I'm a hiker."

"A hiker, who just happens to be a doctor, who just happens to be here when we needed you most," Dean spelt out, watching her understand why he couldn't trust her.

She raised her eyebrows. "Ever heard the phrase 'sometimes good things just happen'?"

"Sure I have. Just never believed it."

The woman pursed her lips. "I'm Sarah," she said finally. "Sarah Adrpan."

"Hiking doctor extraordinaire," Dean finished sarcastically.

"What were _you _doing?" she demanded, and it wasn't lost on Dean how defensive she was becoming. "Because I'm not exactly sure how your brother ended up like that. It's not any animal I've ever seen."

"Bear attack," Dean lied easily. "How did you know we were brothers?"

"I'm a doctor," she said, equally as easily. "I know what grieving families look like. Bears don't come this far south. Try again."

"They do if I say they do," Dean said, smiling tightly.

They looked at each other, hard.

Then finally, Sarah spoke. "My campsite isn't far from here. If you follow me, I can get you and your brother some food and somewhere semi-safe to recover before we call into the hospital tomorrow."

"You've given me next to no reason to trust you," Dean spat.

Sarah gave him a derisive look. "Right. Next time remind me to unveil my entire life story _and _save your brother's life next time I want to earn your trust. And I don't even know your name."

Dean spoke instinctively. "Harry."

She shook her head. "Nope. Not gonna get me that easily."

Dean clenched his jaw, frustrated. "Ed."

She cocked her head and waited, folding her arms.

Dean sighed. "Dean. Winchester. This is my brother, Sam."

She smiled prettily. "Bingo."

She stood and hoisted her pack onto her back. Sarah looked down at the two of them. "Coming, or what?"

Dean hesitated, hand still connected to Sam's humming chest. The cold of the night was really starting to set in, and without their clothes (there was no _way _he was getting any closer to the gates than he had to), there was a scary chance that he or Sam might catch a fever, or with Sam as weak as he was, something worse.

Dean nodded slowly. His life always had been the choice between two evils.

"Cool," Sarah strode around them to the direction where her camp was. It wasn't in the opposite direction of the Gates, but it was as damn close as it was going to get, and Dean was relieved for that fact. She nodded to Sam, who moaned and shivered, leaning unconsciously into Dean and his brothers warmth. "You need help with him?"

"I can carry him," Dean answered, almost too softly. He bent down after standing, carefully picking Sam up, making his hold as gentle as possible, trying not to pull any stitches. "I'll carry him."

* * *

Sam woke to the sound of someone softly humming. As he twisted to feel out his surroundings without opening his eyes, he nearly gasped with the pain that shot from his chest. He stilled for a moment and concentrated on breathing, eyes still firmly pressed shut. He was so distracted by the pain, that he doesn't notice that the singing had stopped.

"Sam?"

As Sam opened his eyes and looks up at Dean, all of the previous nights activities came rushing back at him. He remembered crashing through the undergrowth, remembered fighting off one Hell Hound and then running into Dean. He remembered being surrounded, tackling the hell hound off Dean, and then the Hound tearing into him, it's massive claws scratching down his chest.

He thought he remembered dying.

"Dean?" he answered, his voice bleary. He made a move to sit up and see where he was, but Dean's hands on his shoulders kept him down. He felt that he was wearing some flannel, and looking at his brother, he saw that it was the one that Dean had been wearing the night before. Dean had opted out for the usual layers and was managing with just a grey undershirt.

"Whoa, whoa, hey," Dean said, easing him back onto his back. "You gotta chill dude."

"What happened?" Sam asked, looking around himself and seeing that Dean was hunched over on the ground next to him, he who was curled up in a sleeping bag. They were in a tent, a nice one at that, and somewhere Sam thought he could hear a fire crackling.

"A super nice, totally sus lady came and saved your hide," Dean informed him. "Sarah."

"She just happened to be passing by?" Sam asked, his voice still weak. Then he grimaced, pulling a hand out of his sleeping bag and rubbing his face. "What happened to the Hell Hounds?"

"Well, that's just it, isn't it?" Dean asked, sitting down more comfortably and dropping his voice. "They just scattered. Disappeared. I dunno if it was some supernatural mojo, or if the mutt we killed was just out scouting, trying to get us by itself."

"Wait, so do I like," Sam grimaced, pausing. "Do I owe her my life now or something?"

Dean shrugged, and the night kept up was written across his face as his eyes moved downward. "Who knows. Point is, she's got food and she gave you blood, and she saved your life. Plus, she said something about hospital."

Sam felt sulky. "Do I _have _to go to hospital? I don't even feel that bad."

"Yeah, you have to go to hospital," Dean frowned.

"Give it a day?" Sam pleaded. "Hospitals are a mess for us, Dean. We go to the portal in the cemetery and we ask Cas to come down for five seconds and heal me up if I'm not passable by then."

Dean hesitated. "_Fine_. But only because I want to keep my eye on Doctor lady."

"Thanks," Sam said, ignoring Dean's look of concern as he pushed himself into sitting position. He moved gingerly, scared of ruining the stitches he vaguely remembered getting last night, standing slowly, forced to hunch over with the lowness of the ceiling.

"You right?" Dean asked, hovering over him as he pushed through the tent doors.

"Fine," Sam assured, stepping over the threshold, bare feet seizing as he brought them down onto the cold ground. The campsite was deserted apart from Dean and him, and apart from the expertly set up fire and the strange things, there was no proof of the mysterious lady at all.

"You're up early," a voice announced from behind them, and Sam turned to see a woman walking into the campsite. A bundle of sticks covered her face, but he could see that she was blonde and lithe, with concentrated muscles along her arms and good, strong legs.

"Uh, yeah," Sam agreed, looking at the sun and trying to remember what Bobby had taught him and Dean about what it had to do with time.

"Early riser," Dean agreed.

She dumped the sticks by a pile of wood next to the tent and stuck out her hand. She had similar signs of exhaustion on her face, and Sam felt bad that he'd kept them both up, even going as far as kicking Sarah out of her own bed. The fact that she might or might not be evil and now have a claim over his soul notwithstanding, there was an easy twinge of guilt at the dark bruises under her eyes.

Sam shook it as she introduced herself. "Hey, I'm Sarah. Your brother's probably already filled you in, but I helped save you from that _bear_," she said it like he didn't believe it, "attack last night."

"Uh yeah, thanks," Sam smiled. "Who knew they came so far South?"

Sarah snorted with laughter and bent over the fire, poking a few sticks by the blaze, building up a mound of coals. "So, from what I can gather, hospital's a no?"

"That's right," Sam said, cutting Dean off before he could say anything.

"Right," Sarah said, body tightening with irritation. "As annoying as that is, it's also expected. Breakfast?"

Dean met Sam's eye, and tilted his head.

Sam snapped back to Sarah. "Uh, I'm a little thirsty, actually."

"Oh yeah, same," Sarah said, as if she hadn't realised. She walked over to where the canisters were and tipped herself and Sam a glass. She handed it to him and he took a careful sip.

Neither brother breathed as Sarah started to drink, and took it down easily.

Sam had barely seen Dean put the crucifix away in time.

"You want some, Dean?" Sarah asked, bending over the fire as she put something brown and canned into a billy to cook.

"Vomit breakfast?"

"You're having that whether you want to or not. I meant water."

"Oh no," Dean smiled angelically. "I'm good."

* * *

"Leviathan?" Sam suggested as he picked up another piece of wood from the ground. Sarah had suggested they start to leave at 10, filling her thermos with hot tea, enough to keep Sam on his toes. He was beginning to feel woozy, but the ridiculous speed of his recovery wasn't lost on him either.

He knew he should be bedridden, perhaps in danger of slipping into a coma. So what had changed? How much had Sarah really done?

"Don't think so," Dean frowned, slotting another piece of wood into his pile.

The trees shook green and light as the day broke out over them. The blue of the sky overhead broke through the canopy and alit along the ground. Trees that had seemed ob obtrusive while running in the dead of night no lofted around them, smiling towards the heavens.

"Shapeshifter?"

"We're really digging the bottom of the barrel now, aren't we?" Dean murmured.

"Cas says all the angels who fell to Earth are accounted for," Sam said. "She passed the holy water test...I honestly don't know what's left."

"_All _the angels?" Dean asked drily. "Even the ones who were killed?"

Sam shot him a glare. "You _know _what I mean."

"There's gotta be some left," Dean said quietly. "Some who just wanted to stay."

"If she was an angel, she would have just healed me outright," Sam argued.

"Unless she wanted to hide it," Dean countered.

"Well, how would she know human medical treatment anyway?"

"She could be possessing an actual doctor," Dean replied, as if it were obvious.

"Fine," Sam ran a hand through his hair. "How do you test for angel-ness?"

"Do an angel test."

"Which is?" Sam demanded.

Dean smiled. "Say the name 'Castiel', see how they react."

Sam paused for a moment, hefting the wood further up his arms before frowning in agreement. "Wow, that would actually work."

* * *

"What was that shop again?" Dean asked, as he and Sam sat together, watching Sarah as she took down the tent. Dean had offered to help, but after proving himself to be more of a hindrance than a help, she'd ordered him to take a seat next to Sam.

"The one with the cheeses?" Sam guessed, and Dean nodded his affirmation. "Oh...uh, Casanova's? Cassiopeia's...?"

"Something like that," Dean encouraged.

"Castiel's?"

They both turned to watch Sarah. She was utterly unperturbed.

Sam shoved his spoon into his food and Dean took a moody bite of his breakfast.

* * *

Sarah was satisfied with their half-true explanation for not having their bags, that being that they dropped them when they were running from the bear.

On the first leg of the trip, she spent most of it lecturing them on bears, and how exactly you were supposed to react when you found one in the forest.

Half an hour in, they found a trail, and Sam felt his heart beat settle down and his worry lessen as signs of civilisation like this began to immerge.

As Sarah took a time out to do her business off to the side of the track, Sam turned to Dean, worried.

"Dean, seriously, something's not right."

"You think I don't know that?" Dean demanded, gesturing to where Sarah's pack was. "Look, I'm not much of a hiker, but I swear, if I'm not lost, there was no trial here in the park."

"Ok, so while that's admittedly really creepy," Sam said, looking around to make sure that Sarah wasn't listening. "I'm healing _really _quickly."

Dean blinked. "Thanks, Sam. I'll be sure to add that to our list of 'non-problems'."

"You _know _what I mean," Sam rolled his eyes. "There's no way I should even be _talking _right now. I just had a really major _blood _transfusion. Not to mention, by the end of tomorrow, I think we'll be ready to take the stitches out."

"No way," Dean frowned.

"That's what I'm _saying_."

A disturbance in the bushes caught them to silence as Sarah announced her presence.

She smiled up at them and picked her pack back up. "Ready to go?"

They exchanged looks after nodding, hurrying after her as she walked swiftly down the path.

"How much further have we got to go?" Dean asked, hurrying to catch up with her.

"Couple of hours if we can keep this pace," she answered briskly, looking up to the sky and tilting her head as she read the time. "We've still got plenty of daylight."

"You don't think we're going a bit _too _briskly?" Dean frowned, body language pointedly referring to Sam, who fought an urge to roll his eyes. The urge dwindled as Sam realised Dean was giving Sarah the opportunity to acknowledge how quickly Sam was healing.

Sarah's face fell and she liberally decreased her stride length and speed. "I'm so sorry Sam, you've soldiered on so well, I totally forgot."

"Pretty massive thing to forget," Dean muttered, making no move to disguise his suspicions.

"Are you still playing at that?" Sarah asked, tiredly. "Because I can tell you, camping permit or not, I'm leaving you out here to tango with the bears if you think I'm so untrustworthy."

"Camping permit," Dean echoed.

"_Camping permit_," Sarah agreed.

* * *

Sarah announced midday about an hour and a half into their walk, and then stopped for lunch an hour or so later. She slowed down, looking around them as they moved further from the wilder depths of the forest. Here the greenery was more spread out, and Dean didn't think he'd ever been so happy to see a chocolate wrapper littered onto the ground than he was in that moment.

"You'll have to bear with me," she apologised, dumping her bag down and pulling a pile of dry crackers out of the top compartment of his pack. "I only really brought enough for one."

"I'm fine," Sam said quickly.

"No, you're healing," Sarah raised her eyebrows. She handed him the largest portion, and Dean tried to quell the deep surge of kinsman ship he felt with her at that moment. She turned to Dean, professing the last of what she had. "Ok, do you want the dehydrated grapes—"

Dean frowned. "Uh, sultanas?"

"Or dry crackers?"

Sam nibbled onto the side of the sandwich he'd been handled and watched them with guilty eyes.

"Sultana's," Dean said immediately, making a face at the dry biscuits she was carrying.

Sarah sighed with relief. "Thank god. I _hate _sultana's. The only good thing to come out of grapes is nothing."

"Wine," Dean corrected.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "No, nothing."

"Ok, you're all wrong," Sam insisted. "Non alcoholic grape juice is amazing."

"What are you, a pubescent boy?" Dean demanded. "You're all crazy."

Sarah gave them both disparaging looks. "I can't believe I saved the life of someone who likes _grapes_."

"I can't believe all the people who don't like grapes haven't been eliminated by natural selection," Dean stated, shoving half the sultana's into his mouth at once.

"Close your mouth when you're eating," Sam reminded him.

Dean swallowed and then shoved another handful in without breaking eye contact.

* * *

"Uh, Sarah!" Dean called from where he was standing next to Sam.

After 2:30 had rolled around, their conversation mainly consisted of Dean telling Sam he needed rest, and Sam insisting that he didn't. Sam might have been healing quickly, but the constant exercise was getting to him. His face was clammy and when Dean felt his hands, they were cold and damp, like he was picking up a fever. Dean had insisted that Sam show him his stitches to make sure that they weren't getting infected, and after Sarah had inspected them, she told them both that it was more likely that Sam was just tired out.

And so whenever Dean deemed it necessary, they took a break.

Sarah looked back at the call and nodded, already knowing what they were going to say. Other than worry for his brother, the majority of Dean's thoughts had been on the woman, hoping that she wasn't evil. But the secrets that were kept in their world were far from happy surprises, and their track record was always the worst of the worst.

They walked off to the side of the road, and Sam, pale, sat down, head between his legs. Dean squatted next to him and supported his back so that the slouching wouldn't force his wound to burst open.

"Sorry," he murmured, mouth drooping like he was feeling sick.

"Hey, you ain't got anything to apologise for," Dean said. "You saved my ass with the h—bear, didn't you?"

Sam smiled and let out a few loose laughs. "Sure did."

Sarah was keeping her respectful distance, but Dean could see she was curious. He didn't blame her. If she was as she said, and had just _happened _to be where she was, then it _would _look weird. Two brothers lost in the woods, totally reliant on her to get back home. Dean had been hoping on the back end that he had no idea how to get to anywhere in the woods that she was trustworthy, even when every finely honed instinct told him the otherwise.

"Ok," Sam said, a million miles before he was clearly ready to leave. "Ok, I'm good. Let's go."

"You sure?" Dean asked, standing and helping Sam to his feet, where he swayed slightly, before catching himself and nodding.

"Yeah, I feel good. I'm fine."

"Well, you're not fine," Sarah piped in drily. "But we _do _have to go."

"How much further do we have?" Dean asked, following her gaze to the sky. She'd done it a lot, and Dean was jealous that she'd honed the skill of reading the sun like a clock. He'd always wanted to be able to do that.

"At this pace, three hours," she said, biting her lip. "Two and half if we push."

"I'm all for pushing," Sam interjected. "No, don't look at me like that, Dean. The earlier we get back, the earlier I can rest for good."

"Fine, but I'm not carrying you."

Sam's lips upturned into a reluctant smile.

Sarah seemed invigorated by the rest and shrugged her pack into a more comfortable position. "Alright. We good to go?"

Sam nodded, determined, and Dean let his gaze linger on Sam, watching him walk with all the strength he had left, before following along.

He stayed close to his brother, close enough that every time their elbows touched, he was assuring Sam, that no matter what, he was here.

The sun called over there head and dripped through the trees, slow and warm, like honey. Dean and Sam walked in time.

* * *

The trail ended, and before them, of all things, was a _car park. _They'd only been inside the forest for a little under a day and a half, but looking out to that sort of civilisation hurt Sam's eyes. All he saw was comfort and a bed to lie down in. The Impala was parked where they left her, black and glossy as ever, shining in the late afternoon sun.

Before they got there Sarah stopped, sighed, and turned to face them.

Dean and Sam exchanged a look.

"Ok, here's the god honest truth," Sarah started. She stared down at her feet. Then she looked up at them with a wry smile. "Holy water? Really?"

Sam tensed, he forced himself not to meet Dean's eye, but he had to let his brother know that if it came to it, he'd be no help in a fight. If Sarah had led them _all this way _just to kill them. Mere metres from their own car.

"You saw that, huh?" Dean asked weakly, unconsciously shuffling a little closer to Sam.

"Guessed, more," Sarah said, still faintly amused. "Thought that if I had the water, you guys would stop treating me like a demon."

"Well, that's one way to do it," Dean said.

"So, if you're not a demon, who are you?" Sam asked, confused. "Why'd you help me?"

"Because you're the Winchester's," Sarah said faintly. "And I need your help."

"Before we go on," Dean interrupted, and Sam was vaguely aware that the only reason he was still standing was because Dean had caught onto his arm. "Can we find somewhere to sit?"

Sarah blinked in surprised. "Yeah, oh God, sorry. Here." She led the brothers to a public table, where she pushed off a pile of fast food remains and fussed around as Dean lowered Sam into the seat. Sam felt his stitches strain as he caved down, leaning on his elbows, but yet again, Dean gave his back support, sitting beside him and holding his back up. Slowly, Sarah moved to sit opposite them.

There was a silence as Sarah fiddled with her fingers, her pack dropped to the grass at the end of the table.

Dean cleared his throat. "So."

"I'm a hunter," Sarah explained, relaxing as she saw them sink a little with thankfulness that she was human. Only human. "My son made a deal with a crossroads demon unknowingly, and there's talk..."

She met Sam's sensitive, probing eyes before tucking her arms around herself. "There's talk that you and Crowley are close."

"That talk would be more or less right." Now that she'd admitted what she really was, Dean was a lot more toward with his comfort. His hand hadn't left Sam, bit he was leaning towards her. "What do you need us to do?"

"I need you to convince him to let my son out of his deal," Sarah said, looking from one brother to the next with a hopeful gleam in her eyes.

Sam watched her, still dizzy, still swaying. "How old was he? When he made the deal?"

Sarah swallowed and looked like she was forcing the smile on her face. "Three."

"Three," Sam repeated. He felt sick, and it had nothing to do with the way the stitches pulled on his skin or how weak he felt, like he wouldn't be able to ever run again, ever pick up a gun again, never save himself or Dean again. This sickness came from the threatened life of an innocent. He tried to picture what would happen if a soul so innocent was damned to hell. Jesus, the kid would only be 13 when it's time came due. "Don't worry Sarah, we'll talk to him."

Her eyes brightened and she clasped her hands into fists atop the table. "Wait, really?"

"Sure, we'll summon him," Dean offered. Then he frowned. "Not that he has to come."

Sarah just looked excited, and hopeful, and the happiness was contagious. Sam felt himself smiling across the table at her, as she looked from one to the other, heart brimming with satisfaction.

"Can I come?" Sarah asked.

Sam looked at Dean and Dean answered for the two of them. "Ah, well, we don't think so. He might not show if you're here as well."

Sarah nodded. "Fair enough. There's a campers lodge a mile or so down the road. They have showers and rooms and a cheap diner out the front. I'll be there getting a bite to eat if you need me."

"Thanks Sarah," Sam smiled. "Bye."

She hopped off the seat, picking up her bag. She beamed at them before she strode off.

* * *

"Why am I still..." Sam clenched his jaw and cut himself off. Dean was laying down the last of the spell to call Crowley. They'd hiked a little back into the woods. Not far enough that they couldn't see the impala, but far enough that if someone looked up and saw them, there'd be nothing obviously untoward happening.

"What?" Dean asked, picking up the matches from where he'd left them, next to the rest of their emergency alchemist tools.

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. Don't worry, nothing."

"Right," Dean said, letting it slide and pulling a match out. He struck it against the side of the box and let it fall into the brass bowl. With a bang the chemicals inside it exploded, little drabs of fire charring the grass the bowl was sitting on.

"Hello, Boys," Crowley greeted, his usual monotone greeting no less grating than usual. "What can I do for you? Nice to notice you haven't upped the decor too much this time."

It had been Sam's idea not to draw out a devils trap. He insisted that Crowley was more likely to come if he wouldn't end up captured. Dean agreed with him on that, but it didn't mean he wanted to give the demon any chance of leverage over them.

"Cut the crap, Crowley, we're not here to chat," Dean said, almost bored.

"Obviously," Crowley informed them drily. "Now, what seems to be the issue, boys? The band broken up again? I notice John Lennon isn't here to keep the Yellow Submarine plodding along."

"Cas is busy with Heaven, Crowley," Sam said, watching the demon warily and curiously. "We need to stop a deal."

Crowley frowned. "Can't be done. Moose, you of all people should know...there's no way to reverse a demon deal."

"We didn't know _you_ before," Sam said evenly.

Crowley frowned. "You alright, Sam? You look a little sick."

Sam blanched. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Can we _please _bring this conversation back to Sarah," Dean sighed, frustrated.

"Sure," Crowley allowed. "Who's Sarah?"

"The mother of one of the souls you've claimed," Dean spat. Crowley frowned, as if trying to recollect, so Dean decided to jog his memory. "3 years old? Had no idea what he was doing? Ring a bell?"

"No, actually," Crowley said, raising his eyebrow. "The youngest children souls are normally sold from are 10, 11 at least. No demon would make a deal with anyone younger." Crowley sniffed. "Innocence reeks in the pit."

"I don't believe you," Sam said.

"Whoop dee doo," Crowley muttered.

Dean gestured to talk to Sam off from where Crowley was standing.

"You know you're not _actually _holding me here, right?"

Dean's voice was low and urgent. "Sam, go get Sarah. We need her."

"What, why?"

"Because of collateral damage," Dean said, as if it were obvious.

Sam shook head and shrugged in confusion. "So? He's a _demon_."

"A demon who was addicted to human blood, and just so _happened _to give your soul back, no strings attached," Dean reminded him. "Look, it can't hurt. Maybe she'll have a picture to prompt his memory."

Sam stared at him, before sighing and shuffling off.

"Where's Sam going?"

"Away," Dean replied, and Sam didn't look behind his shoulder as they kept talking.

* * *

"Love what you've done with the place, by the way," Crowley said, nodding to Dean, impressed.

"Excuse me?"

"The manscaping," Crowley said, smiling as Dean glared, mostly out of confusion. "The Mark. It's all faded and _not there_. It's glorious."

"Oh," Dean said, rubbing his arm self consciously. "Right."

Crowley smiled and tapped his finger on his thigh.

Dean rubbed his arm again. "Right."

* * *

Just as she'd said, the diner was a mile or so down the road. Sam was still feeling strong on his feet when he got there, but he knew he'd have to take a break before he pushed off for making it back to Dean and Crowley. Sam knew Dean thought he'd given his little brother the lesser of two evils, but all the walking he'd done today was already taking its toll. It was true that if the situation arose, there'd be no way he could fight off Crowley, but watching a bored demon would have taken far less effort.

And from the sense memory he had of his time in Crowley's 'care', he didn't think that the demon would try anything anyway.

The bell trilled overhead as he pushed the door open. The effort it took wasn't undisguisable, so he just moulded a smile and nodded at the waitress, bored behind the counter, who nodded back and smiled.

"What can I do you for, sugar?" She asked, putting her wash cloth down and smiling at Sam. He couldn't stand for much longer, so, as smoothly as he could, he edged onto one of the seats along the bar.

"Oh, I'm just looking for a friend," Sam said.

"You needa borrow the phone?" the waitress asked. She gestured behind her. "We got one in the—"

"No, no, she should be here now," Sam said, looking around and feeling that sense of wrongness he'd had since Sarah had told them she was a hunter stir in the pit of his stomach. "Are there any other rooms?"

"Other than the hotel rooms?" the waitress asked, frowning. "No. No there ain't. I might have seen her, though. When'd you think she was gonna be here?"

"Now," Sam said, voice small.

"Oh honey," the waitress picked up his hand and squeezed it comfortingly. "We been empty since 12. It ain't ever a nice feelin' to be stood up."

And then Sam could place the odd feeling, he didn't know why he couldn't before, it seemed so obvious to him now. The deadened rot at the base of his belly had been warning him of _deceit_. He had no idea how he knew it, or why, all he knew was that he had to find Sarah, and quickly.

Because whatever she was, it wasn't human. And she wasn't a hunter.

"Thanks," he said shortly, standing up unsteadily from the table. He pressed on and walked as quickly as he dared out the front door, the bell an irritation, the wind and the grass and the air...she'd _tricked _them.

"Dean," he said, as soon as Dean had picked up. "She's not there. She never was."

"_What_?" Dean demanded, and Sam heard muttered curses. "_Shit, do I tell Crowley to go_?"

"Probably for the best," Sam said, and waited impatiently against a post that might have once been integral in the times of horses and cabs, but now it served as nothing more than a reminder of a time long ago.

"_I'm back, and he's left. Pissed, which isn't new. What do you mean she's gone?_"

"Never even arrived at the diner," Sam said, speaking as quickly as possible. "She lied Dean. She's not a hunter."

"_Thanks, Horatio_."

"No, seriously," Sam said. "She's not human. Me healing so quickly, there was no way she was going to be able to hold out on us so long. That's why she was so evasive about who she was."

"_She needed time to think up a reasonable cover story_," Dean cursed. Sam heard the door of the impala creak open and the slotting of the keys into the ignition. The engine cranked and Sam smiled faintly as he heard the car purr.

"She must have thought we'd figure it out," Sam said. "How long did she take to say her name was Sarah?"

"_Weirdly long_," Dean admitted. "_Though, you know, we were saving your life at the time._"

"Right," Sam said. "Come pick me up."

"_Where are you_?"

"The diner where she said she'd be," Sam answered quickly. "See you in a few."

The line fell dead and he tucked his phone into his pocket. He didn't care if it irritated Dean, he closed his eyes, reached out his mind, and started to pray.

_I pray to Cas, hey man, we really need your help and we haven't got much time. There's something out there, and we don't know what it is. It's smart and it's powerful, and it's nothing like we've ever seen before. _

_Uh thanks._

_How do you sign off on one of these things?_

_Amen?_

* * *

They'd ended up getting a room in the motel where the camper often went after a few hard weeks of intense outdoor living, so despite those people's obvious hardiness, the rooms were a lot nicer than the ones they were used to.

Sam had taken the opportunity to take a shower and check on his cuts. There was no sign of inflammation or infection, which, rather than appeased him, just made him more concerned. How much had she done? What was her cost? What was so important that it couldn't ever be told?

As he came out of the bathroom, he heard Dean on the phone.

"Thanks Hannah, yeah, bye."

Dean switched the phone off and threw it onto the bed. As he turned, Sam saw how exhausted he was.

"What's happening?" Sam asked, running the towel over his head once more before hanging it on the doorway to the bathroom.

"Hannah's on her way," Dean said, looking at Sam begrudgingly. "Apparently, someone prayed to Cas."

"Yeah," Sam said, sitting down on the edge of hit bed. "That was me. We needed help."

"We would have found her."

Sam bit back a scowl and kept his head. "C'mon, Dean. We don't even know what she is. All we know is that she doesn't seem threatening yet."

"Um, I don't know if you noticed, but being that evasive puts you on the suspects list," Dean said, sitting on the bed next to Sam and wrapping his face in his hands.

Sam was silent for a moment. "When's Hannah getting here?"

"Closest portal was five hours away."

"Get some sleep," Sam ordered, standing up and stretching. "I'll stay up."

"No," Dean said, miffed. "You're sick, Sam."

"You're _exhausted, _Dean."

They locked in a silent battle of wills, and Dean finally lay flat back on his back, conceding defeat.

Sam took the seat by the table. He looked up to say something else, but Dean was already slumbering, his breaths deep and even, face serene.

Sam paused, before walking over as carefully as he could, making sure he didn't pull any stitches as he shoved Dean up to the pillow and took the doona from his bed and placed it over Dean, turning away when it was done and sinking back into the chair he'd vacated.

He idly picked at the row of terrible books that the motel had lain out on the bookshelf and picked one up to leaf through.

It was going to be a long five hours.

* * *

"You're in pain," was the first thing Hannah said when she saw Sam. Without a word, she reached up and touched him on the forehead. He blinked and felt the blue rush through him, sealing up the wounds. He felt the pressure of the stitches ease and the weakness he'd been feeling dissolve. The night was complete behind Hannah. The car she must have stolen was parked smoothly next to the Impala and she looked as she always did, with her dark hair and bright blue eyes.

"Wow," Sam blinked, finally looking around and _not_ feeling like he was being smashed about on a boat.

"You're welcome," Hannah said simply, stepping passed him and into the room. She stopped short when she saw Dean asleep on his bed.

"Ah, yeah, just let him sleep," Sam said, dropping his voice and hoping she'd get the hint.

She did. "I could revive him and replenish his wakefulness," she whispered.

Sam shook his head decisively. "No, this is better." He looked down at his watch. "We'll give him an hour."

Hannah looked unsure. "I was under the impression that this was a mission of utmost importance."

"It is," Sam said, but he still held out a chair for her, and she sank down into it slowly, unsure. "But, uh, look, we've got a lot to go over before we can think about finding her. So, ask me questions, and we'll find some way of locating her. Right?"

"Anything can be summoned," Hannah agreed. Then she straightened. "Definitely not a demon."

"Unless she was very high ranking," Sam said. "The only demons who weren't affected by holy water was Azazel and Lilith. Yellow and white eyes."

"Darkened Children of light," Hannah murmured.

Sam frowned. "Is that their official name?"

Hannah blushed. "Uh, no. It's just..."

"You like poetry," Sam finished, and tried not to smile.

Hannah nodded self consciously. When she shook herself back into business, she still had a small smile and the apples of her cheeks were still dusted with red.

"What was her reaction to sunlight?"

* * *

In the end, Dean only got 20 out of the 60 minutes that Sam had been hoping for. His brother was just pissed that he hadn't been woken when Hannah had first arrived but got over it quickly enough.

"So, what are we thinking?" Dean managed after half a cup of coffee.

"There's nothing," Hannah admitted. "Nothing we've been through, known or myth."

"We thought she might be an angel," Dean said, and Sam felt disgruntled that they were bringing this up again.

"Yeah, but we _told _her Cas's name, and she didn't react."

Hannah glanced between them. "Wait, that was your test? Castiel's name?"

Sam suddenly felt very inadequate. "Uh, yeah. That was it."

But Hannah seemed impressed. "Good job. There are not many angels who would be impartial on judgement of him."

Dean looked at her for a beat. "I honestly don't know whether that's a good or bad thing."

"It's both," Sam said smartly.

All three stopped what they were doing when there was a knock at the door.

Dean pulled the gun out from under his jeans and moved to it. He looked out and when he looked back, Sam knew who it was.

"It's her," Sam whispered to Hannah, but she wasn't moving. She was just staring, as though she was seeing something other than them. Like she was entrapped.

"Dean!" Sam called, before his brother opened the door. "She's doing something to Hannah—"

"No, no she's not," Hannah denied, but her voice was weak. "She's not."

Dean looked quickly at Sam before wrenching the door open. Everyone stood to attention when Sarah walked in.

"Hello," she said, holding herself with more confidence than she had been. With that light, with the darkness still complete behind her, she looked ethereal. She looked complete. She looked inhuman.

"Sarah," Sam greeted, nodding.

She turned to him and smiled. "Sam, it's good to see that you are entirely well."

Suddenly, Hannah fell to one knee, bending her head and fixing her eyes to the floor.

"Hanael," she said, and the way she said it caused Dean and Sam to exchange looks across the room. "Stand, please."

Hannah obliged quickly, still refusing to even _look _at the being across from her.

"I suppose I have to apologise," she said, standing up straight. "You know of the angels, I'm assuming? You'll have to forgive my ignorance," she smiled faintly. "Everything I know about the recent events are from memories that have been gifted to me."

Sam and Dean both nodded, perplexed.

She took a deep breath. "Do you know of the archangels?"

"Sure," Dean spoke up. "Raphael, Michael and Gabriel."

She frowned. "No, there were seven. Four were thrown to earth by their brothers not long after God disappeared. I thought..." She closed her eyes as if scanning her memories. "No," she murmured to herself. "How could I have overlooked that?"

"Overlooked what?" Sam asked, feeling as though he had some inkling, for some reason. Like he could borrow her thoughts.

"They're myth now," she murmured. "Forgotten by choice."

"What, you're saying that _you're _an archangel?" Dean demanded.

"Lost for many, many millennia, but yes," Sarah said, standing up straight and looking both boys in the eye. "I apologise for lying when you asked what I was, but it was necessary. You consorted with demons and hated angelkind. I could not know if you were trustworthy." She levelled her gaze at both of them. "I am Sariel. Healer of the seven archangels, created by God to serve humanity."

Neither brother said anything, so she spoke again.

"And I think I have something that you are looking for."

The speechlessness of the room was not impeded on when she reached into her bag and pulled something out.

Both Sam and Dean stilled when they recognised what it was.

It was the angel tablet.

* * *

_I hope you picked up on the foreshadowing...if not well, oh well. Happy early 4th of july. I'm Australian._

_Researched: Sariel (archangel), the seven archangels, biblical mythology, estimated time when God disappeared from the spn universe_

_Rewatch: None_

_New Tags: Sariel, FOC, OC, Angelic Law, Hurt!Sam, camping_

_Don't forget to review, follow or favourite!_

_Also remember to LEAVE YOUR NAME with the DOORMAN so that next time you want to visit he just sends you RIGHT UP_

_Next chapter will be called: **Heaven's Seventh**_


	8. Heaven's Seventh

_Hey Chicks,_

_How's it all hanging? I'm joking I don't care._

_Research: Escape/Heist movies, images of Hannah on tumblr bc she's my bae_

_Rewatch: None_

_New Tags: Heaven_

* * *

"_I got_

_Nine lives, cats eyes_

_using every one of them and running wild_

_Cause I'm back_

_Yes I'm back."_

_-Back in Black, _ACDC

* * *

"I'm sorry, come again?" Dean had his arms crossed and was glaring fully at her now. He was a step ahead of Sam, all too prepared to jump in and defend his brother.

"I'm the archangel, Sariel," she said dutifully, carefully placing the angel tablet onto the table next to her, where it would remain in the constant back chatter of each person in the rooms mind, a certain nattering of it that couldn't be ignored. "Michael and Raphael threw me, my sister and my two other brothers to earth after we discovered what they were planning."

"When was that?" Dean demanded.

Sariel shrugged. "After Lucifer fell, thousands of years ago. Gabriel had already left by then, terrified of the fighting between Lucifer and Michael. It scared us all, but Gabriel often played mediator, and so it was he who witnessed the truth behind the ferocity. Me and my siblings thought he was simply overreacting, but honestly..." she grimaced. "We were mighty, we were archangels. Nothing but witnessing the worst would send us to earth. And Gabriel always had been a free spirit. Least loved of God and often an outcast in our meetings of war."

"I'm confused though," Sam said suddenly. "I thought that Lucifer was an archangel. I mean, he certainly thought of himself as one."

Sariel tilted her head. "He was certainly an odd angel, created second to Michael and with powers similar to Archangels, powers that only increased in his exile. God sensed Lucifer's wickedness early, and though he had powers to rival us and was Michael's favourite, he was left out, turned away. Not as important as we. I always felt bad for him, but..."

"Not bad enough to do anything," Sam finished bitterly. "Well, good job with that one. Not like it didn't come to bite you on the ass or anything."

Sariel didn't look angry, only tired. "Do not worry Sam, I am just as aware of my part in the fall of Lucifer and the creation of you two as you are. Never a day goes past where I do not wish that I had done something different in those years of peace." Sariel drew into herself and when she continued, her voice was quiet. "We cheered when Michael cast Lucifer into the pit. We thought the worst was over. We thought we had won."

She turned silent and her eyes grew milky with remembering, mouth fiddling with regret.

"But we expressed doubt, you see. And doubt it dangerous for an angel. Unparalleled loyalty is what makes us so strong. We are teams of flying colours. It is crucial everyone know where they stand, instrumental that everyone fly in exact formation."

"So Raphael and Michael kicked you out," Sam finished for her.

Sariel nodded. "Immediately after the Morningstar had fallen, they planned his rise. My brothers and sister and I, we forgot how strong God had made them, forgot how strong, in particular, he'd made Michael. And we paid the price. We fell to Earth and lost our places in Heaven and in the devotion of the rest of the Host."

Sam stiffened his jaw. He'd known that the angels had been planning the apocalyptic rerun for generations, but he had no idea that it had been the _moment _or so after their brother had fallen, that they decided to press for another one.

How long had they been waiting for Sam and Dean to be born?

There was an undercurrent of sudden self awareness as he realised just how big of an upset his sacrifice had caused.

"It's just, I feel like Gabriel would have mentioned you."

"I've been presumed dead for years," Sariel reminded Sam drily. "I almost wouldn't be surprised if he had forgotten I existed at all."

"What, and you just happened to be living on earth for thousands of years and no one noticed?"

Sariel smoothed her hair pack, something Sam wondered if she did when agitated. "I lost my powers when I fell to earth. I was in the middle of nowhere. I managed to set a life up with the Inuit's of the northern reaches of North America. After a while," she paused and looked down. When she met Sam and Dean's eyes again, her face was hard. "The Knights of Hell would come looking for me. They killed many of the people trying to protect me, and I..." her hands squeezed tight. "I couldn't let that keep happening."

"So, what, you died?" Sam asked, curious now.

"No, they didn't want me to die," she said bitterly. "But they _did _want something from me. They took my grace. Or more specifically, Abaddon took my grace."

"Then how are you still alive?" Sam asked, recalling how Cas expected to die when he lost his to Metatron's spell. "Without your grace, don't you become human?"

Sariel frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Hannah filled in the blanks. Her voice was full of awe, but steady, so Sam decided that though her words might be biased, they'd be more or less reliable. "An archangels grace is cast into separate pieces inside of them. There is the main part, which is where the true power lies, and then two others." She searched for an explanation. "It's how Gabriel was able to hide for so long, from the ancient deities he conversed with, and the angels who searched for him."

"Right. So you know that Abaddon is dead, right?" Dean asked, looking at Sariel.

"Of course," she replied, looking a little offended. "As practically human, I searched my entire life for Hell and for a way to get my grace back. After a while, I was worried...there aren't many things that can destroy an angels grace. Once created, it exists on until infinity—"

"Law of conservation of mass," Sam said instinctively, and fought the urge to cover his face as Sariel blinked up at him. "Sorry, go on."

"Right, yes. I searched for it for many, many years. I missed many great events, and when I resettled into civilisation after losing track of it for the third time, I could finally become a doctor without too much drama." Sariel settled and her body seemed to have relaxed as neither Sam nor Dean called foul play as she recited her story. "I searched for many years, but Abaddon was smart. She knew I looked, or at least assumed, and it was always hidden to me, yet always calling." Sariel looked almost sickened in remembering all she'd been through to get to where she was. "But with Abaddon's recent death, I managed to outwit her brain dead underlings and find my grace." she smiled. "I was right. There was no harm that could be done to it."

Sam turned to Hannah for an explanation and she spoke. "Archangels are irrefutable. They're obsolete. God created them to be his perfect soldiers, and that they are."

Sariel tilted her head, as if Hannah had gotten most right, except for one tiny, crucial thing. "No, the perfect _weapons_."

All three stiffened and stared as Sariel frowned in confusion. "What?"

"At least she's self aware," Sam whispered to Dean.

"Right," Dean agreed. But then he turned his focus back onto Sariel. "Ok, fine. But why'd you only come now? How long did it take you to find your grace after Abaddon died?"

"Not long," she admitted. "But I had many memories to sort through, many Histories to learn. Many events to admire." She gave Sam and Dean a longer look when she said that, and neither had any qualms about acknowledging that she respected their choice in averting the apocalypse. Dean sometimes wished that they hadn't. Sure, there would have been pain. Pain for everyone and everything. Pain and death on a scale unheard of. But now the world looked no better than it had before, his little brother had suffered for over a century and dick headed angels still moved around like they owned the place.

Sam knew his brother thought like this. It wasn't that he didn't care that he never broached the topic, it was more that a tiny part of him knew that he'd given too much, suffered too much, died too much.

"I was practically comatose for these past few weeks, dreaming through all the things I missed."

"So what, memories were fed to you? You just _watched _them?" Sam asked, intrigued more than angry now. "And, how'd you find the angel tablet?"

Sariel pursued on her story. "I gathered information on a need to know basis. I learnt a lot about you and your brother, and about the recent animosity between factions of heaven, and factions of Hell." She looked a little sheepish as she looked down to the angel tablet. "Ah, yes, I was wondering when you were going to bring that up."

"Bring it up?" Dean demanded. "It's been missing! Metatron hid it."

"Don't worry," Sariel assured him. "I am fully aware of all that usurper did while he was ruling Heaven and all the angels."

"Is that how you found it?" Sam asked. "You, uh, 'remembered' where it was hidden?"

Sariel looked confused. "I am an archangel."

"And?"

"She sensed it," Hannah supplied, stepping in as translator yet again. "But... it must have been _close_, was it?"

Sariel nodded, smiling when she understood where the confusion lay. "Yes. It seems that Metatron may have hidden it in a place he was unconsciously drawn to, which was the remains of my power calling out to him. Like Gabriel, I and the other archangels have power on calling legions together. Not to his extent, but perhaps some of my power leaked out, and he followed it."

"And where are the others?" Dean demanded. "Your brothers and sister. The other archangels. What happened to them?"

Sariel's gaze turned cool, and Sam restricted an urge to pull his brother back from her. This was the first time she looked truly put out, looked truly upset. "They all died."

"You're sure?"

"Falling from Heaven is not kind on anyone," Sariel said, jaw still tight, eyes still hard. "And neither are angel blades. Michael and Raphael knew that they must keep hunting us down."

"And you escaped?"

Sariel nodded. "I was always good at hiding. And I was never very vocal. Often in the back of the room, often swaying with the most popular decision. When they couldn't find me, they must have known they'd have bigger things to focus on."

The room fell into contemplative silence.

Sam fiddled with his fingers. All of this was important, of course it was. She was a possibility for taking over Cas's loathed position in Heaven and she was in a position to do it _well_. They knew she felt for humanity, and that she cared for both Sam and Dean despite the fact that they were some of millions, but he couldn't focus on that.

She was powerful. That was obvious enough with the rate he had been healing after the attack. His train of thought was disrupted when a cold truth stole the air from his lungs. "The Hell Hounds...I should have died, shouldn't I?"

Sariel watched him, tilting her head. "You're worried about Death's claim over yours and Dean's soul?"

Sam inclined his head in a short, affirmative nod. What would it mean if it had somehow messed up the contract? Death was strong enough to overcome the Archangels grace and power, but maybe he hadn't noticed yet. Maybe he _would_.

Sariel smiled. "No need to worry, Sam. My assistance in saving your life was entirely mortal. Your recovery, however, was where I assisted. And..." she trailed off, looking at Sam with an eagerness he hadn't witnessed before. "You recall that I gave you some of my blood."

"Sure," Sam agreed. Then he paused, and felt Dean's gaze heavy against the side of his face. "I have _angel _blood in me?"

"It's hardly potent, and will fade," Sariel assured him. "But for a time, tiny fragments of angelic power might push through."

Sam felt ill. This was the demon issue all over again, except opposite. Directly opposite. Not only an angel, but an _archangel _had given blood so that he might live. He felt that old dread return, that this was leading him down a path he wouldn't be able to get off.

"How long?" Dean demanded, the hash, almost desperate ring to his tone signifying his mind was in a similar place. "Until it disappears? How long?"

Sariel blinked in confusion. "Uh, well...a few days, I assume. I don't understand, this—" she cut herself off, catching the thought, Sam and the other special children's fate and Sam felt a twinge of guilt as her face fell with apology. "Oh, Sam. I'm so sorry. I forgot—"

"Sarah, please, it's ok," Sam assured her, assuaging her fears with a small smile. "It's just a few days. I can deal with that."

Hannah was looking at him with wide eyes, her silence spurred by shock and respect no less apparent as she took him in. Dean was also watching him, but his eyes were far more guarded. They'd come a long way since the night that Sam had freed Lucifer. They'd done a lot, been a lot, suffered a lot. And here they were, on the other side of the coin.

Sam had to wonder what it all meant.

"But, uh, Sariel," Sam said finally, clearing his throat and bringing them back to what he'd initially been considering. The nervousness he'd been feeling snuck up at the back of his throat and dried it considerably, turning it from tight with worry about what Sariel's blood might be doing to him to uncomfortable and breathy. "Could you..." he made a point of not looking at Dean. "What do you know about the Mark of Cain?"

"Sam—" Dean started, but Sariel interrupted him.

"No, no," she said, looking between them curiously. She closed her eyes for a moment before flashing them open, giving Dean an open once over, almost appreciative, but more filled with a worried awe. "Yes, you must have masked it somehow. But Dean, you carry it, do you not? Cain's bloody mark?"

Dean worked his jaw and his silence was answer enough.

Sariel shook her head apologetically. "I cannot remove the mark. It must be passed on to a being the carrier deems worthy. In this case, Dean must find someone, as Cain found him." She paused. "I'm sorry to not be of more help."

Sam's mouth was fully dry now, and the heart that had picked up in hopefulness now thudded empty and painful on his ribcage. "No, it's ok. It's fine."

Sariel smiled, then turned to Hannah. "I apologise to be of inconvenience sister, but I would not like to make a scene when I arrive at heaven. Would you do me the honour of accompanying me to a portal?"

Sam privately expressed that Hannah probably would have squawked with excitement if the situations hadn't been so dire. Instead of freaking out, she simply nodded, burned a curious shade of red and pushed her hair off her shoulders.

"Certainly. I will tell Castiel to expect you."

"You may," Sariel said, looking up to the assumed level of Heaven. "But I suspect he already knows. He is too clever, too careful."

* * *

Dean knew Sam had never really been to Heaven. The time's he had died had probably leant his soul to the skies, but his little brother didn't remember it, so it could hardly count. The Heaven created for them by Zachariah had been full of lies, full of contradictory things designed to tear the two apart and into the patient arms of Lucifer and Michael.

Dean, looking back, was almost offended he'd been lied to so easily. Almost _embarrassed_.

Dean had been up to Cloud 9 though. He'd come up with the first blade in his hand and the Mark Cain had given him burning bright and stark against his arm. Honestly, it hadn't been his best memory, but it wasn't his worst either. Metatron had died, most of the angels he'd come to know under Cas's leadership had survived, and they'd managed to secure heaven with minimal deaths.

It was sort of inspiring, now that he thought about it.

But it didn't matter, because now they stood with Sariel and Hannah beside a phone booth.

The area around them was abandoned, the night still taking over the world like an unbroken frost. The night sky above was clouded and black, a storm was coming, or it had come and was passing. Either way, the street lights were what they relied on to make their way, reflecting in the lights of the car Hannah had stolen.

"C'mon, 99," Dean said, eyebrows raising when he saw the box, smirking to Sam who'd made the same connection as he had. "C.O.N.T.R.O.L wants a word."

"What the hell? I'm not 99," Sam said, slamming his car shut and moving with Dean to meet Hannah and Sariel, who were waiting patiently by the box.

Dean snorted. "Well, I am _definitely _not."

"Yeah, you're agent K9 because you look like him."

Dean hid his laugh with a scowl. "Strong words, strong words."

"Are you ready?" Sariel asked them, her soft amused smile spelling out that she'd heard what they were talking about. There was something about the archangel that Dean couldn't help liking. She had such a soft way about her, such a smiling, calm exterior that masked such a brilliant interior. She fought for humanity and angel kind alike, and Dean wished that he could have known the other archangels. He wondered if they were more like Lucifer, or more like her.

If they expressed doubt over the wisdom of the apocalypse, they couldn't have been all bad.

"As we'll ever be," Sam smiled.

"Good," Sariel nodded to Hannah, who opened the door to the portal, stepping to the side and awaiting further instruction.

Dean felt a tremor, a twinge, at seeing her so compliant again.

Something jerked at the back of his mind. Something about fish and poetry, something about angels and free will.

Sariel stepped to the side. "Sam, if you'll go with Hannah."

Sam stepped up and took Hannah's hand. They disappeared inside the phone box with a flash of blue. It illuminated the area around them, the black flashing back in a slow burn, light fading from blue to the colourless nightlight.

"Hannah's worried about the car," Sariel informed him, lips twitching in a smile. "She wishes to give it back to the owner."

Dean slipped a smile and glanced back to where the Toyota was parked ashamedly by the curb. "Don't worry, when we get back I'll send out an anonymous tip. They'll know what to do."

"Thanks, Dean," Sariel smiled. She paused before taking his hand, taking a deep breath. "I want to...apologise for not being forward in my actual identity. It was cruel and rude of me, and I'm sorry."

"It's ok—"

"No, it's not," Sariel corrected him. "You put your brother's life in my hands, and I should have been truthful with you. I just...I needed to make sure that you and Sam were trustworthy. You've both done seriously terrible things, but saying that, you've also done seriously _wonderful _things."

Dean stared at her.

"So, I'm sorry," Sariel concluded awkwardly.

"Ok," Dean said. "But seriously, Sarah, it's fine. I understand. I do. I wouldn't have done any different if I'd been in your shoes."

Sariel tilted her head. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not."

"It is," Dean assured her, grinning.

Sariel rolled her eyes and extended her hand as she and Dean stepped into the phone box. He reiterated, sticking it into hers and with a blue light, they disintegrated, beaming up to Heaven.

* * *

"The _archangel_?" Cas stammered, looking at her. Gathered in Metatron's old office, they made for an odd assortment of people. The Mark of Cain was white and faded on Dean's arm, but that old grief still hummed through his veins as though some sort of poison. Sammy, with angel blood and demon blood and the weight of the world on his hands, stood casually next to Hannah to the side of the room. She was watching it all unfold with wide eyes and Dean had to wonder where she'd come from to here. What she thought her life would be like, one of thousands, another faceless voice in the choir. Then Sariel, her hiking clothes still on, hair tied back into a ponytail. And Cas, face smacked open in awe.

Cas had been busy. Hannah informed them that he was _always _busy, but he'd felt the celestial shift along with every other being in Heaven when Sariel and Dean touched down, and had cancelled his 12:00 pretty promptly after that.

Sariel smiled. "Apparently."

"Where _were _you?" Cas asked. "All these years, and we all thought you and the others were a _myth_..." Cas stared at her. "And the angel tablet, as well?"

"Yes," Sariel confirmed. "After Abaddon was killed, locating the grace that was stolen from me became exponentially easier. Then, with my rediscovery, I sensed the angel tablet." Sariel frowned, pausing before going on. "I am sorry for what horrors Metatron has wrought in my absence. It was undue of me. I should have worked harder, done more sooner. I was one of the leaders of Heaven, and I let it down."

"And, you can't fly?" Cas asked hopefully.

But his face cracked as she shook her head. "No, and while that surprised me at the time, I assumed it was because the demons had done something to my grace. I had long though it was unable to be tarnished by Hell, by _anything_." Sariel's lips slipped into a wry smile. But there was no humour, and an ancient bitterness stung at her eyes. "I suppose I was half wrong."

"Did you know?" Cas asked, his voice was low and persistent. "About the apocalypse? That Lucifer had risen?"

Sariel looked upset, at herself, at the world. At Abaddon for the position the knight had put her in. Dean was suddenly very relieved that he had followed through with it, stabbed the bitch in Sammy's ceasing heart. He was sure his past self wouldn't hold to the same conviction, but right now, seeing the hope in Cas's eyes, the wonder in Hannah's, Sam's steady form warm _because _of Sariel...it seemed like the world he had so long loathed was chasing around that particular ideal of choices and crossroads.

Who knows where they could have ended up, now, if Abaddon had been allowed to live. Who knows who would be in the chair Cas was standing next to, where the angel tablet would be, who would be alive and who wouldn't.

"No," Sariel's voice wavered but held firm. "No I didn't. All I had left, all that remained within me was my knowledge, my healing and my longevity. I outlived many men, healed many wounded soldiers and saw many great things, but I missed out on my own goddamned apocalypse."

"Sarah saved me, as well," Sam piped up from the corner. He looked around uncomfortably as everyone turned to look at him. Dean raised an eyebrow and Sam gave him a half shrug back. It couldn't hurt, to prove her worth. To have saved the life of one of Cas's closest friends.

"Of course," Cas said. "The Hell Gate. Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Found, it, yeah," Dean said evasively. "But there's no way we can go down alone. Dante might not have been right about everything, but there's no way in Hell just me and Sam can make it down there alone."

"And it was guarded, which is how Sam was injured?" Cas hazarded, looking from brother to brother, and then to Sarah, who nodded.

"Hell hounds," Sariel supplied. "Guarding in a three mile radius. They were receptive to my threats, but they would die before giving up their positions, giving up their home."

"Dandy," Dean muttered, casting about this new information. He hadn't given the disappearing act committed by the Hounds much thought after being saved by Sarah and his incessant thoughts to get Sam to safety and hospice care, but now that he thought about it, they all did disappear after Sarah had arrived. Perhaps they had sense what the brothers couldn't, her rolling waves of power and light.

Nevertheless, Sariel the goddamned Forgotten Archangel had sent them off to the kennel with their tails between their legs, and Dean was thankful.

"Back to more pressing matters," Cas announced, picking up the tablet Sariel had lain out on the desk. He grimaced slightly as either the power or memories associated with the block of stone sent a tremor through his system, but ignored it to look up across at Sarah. "Can you read this?"

"No," Sariel said shortly. "Only the prophet, God or Metatron has the power to do that. But I _can _tell you that placing that tablet in the hands of the angels turned against their own nature by Metatron's mind wiping methods will be healed. And that Metatron wasn't lying." She stiffened and when she spoke next, her voice was soft, apologetic. "There is no way to reverse the spell."

"We will never fly again," Hannah said softly, and though Cas had said that angels could not cry, Dean saw something deep and breaking within the soldier. She'd held onto the hope, the symbol that was her wings, that was her freedom. She straightened her arms straight down her sides, ending in two fists, and bowed her head.

"No," Cas agreed, and though he masked it, Dean knew his friend well enough to know what he was feeling. They'd been pushed out of the nest, wings wrenched off, finding that climbing to the top did nothing but prove that detached wings couldn't be sewn back on. Nothing about this was fair. Thanks to Metatron's selfishness, thanks to Cas's trusting nature.

But Dean only blamed the dead of the two for what the angels were going through.

Sariel held her chin a miniscule higher, asserting her dominance, bring the two forlorn angels back to the here and now. "During my comatose state, I recalled that Metatron ordered there be no more prophets. Has the switch been returned?"

"I'm gonna have to slow you down there," Dean put in suddenly. "We really going to ruin more people's lives, just to have the writer of some half-assed gospel? Every single Prophet we've met has faded off or died way before their time." He looked around himself, uncomfortable with the intensity of how everyone looked at him. Sam with agreement, Hannah with concentrated confusion, Sariel with wonder and curiosity, and Cas with something stronger and more potent than pride. "I just...why ruin more lives than we have to?"

"I'm with Dean," Sam said grimly. "Kevin would have had a full life if it wasn't for becoming a prophet. We can't do it anymore."

"A prophet is necessary," Sariel rebuked. "We need one, to foresee the things that will occur and to note down the happenings of earth. Did Kevin—Tran, wasn't it?—begin his position quite young, then?"

"Too young," Dean said, his voice almost too bitter to be taken seriously as a point of argument. "We can't...it ruins people's lives. Chuck, the guy before Kevin, was a drunk and a recluse. I mean, he was no Poe, but he would have had a decent life and a better set of books if it wasn't for us. Wasn't for this messed up fuckery of a world we're part of."

"Eloquently put," Sariel remarked, but she looked nearly convinced. She made as if to say something, but then stopped, mouth closing decisively. Then she started up again. "But stories must be recorded."

"Then they could be informed, maybe?" Sam suggested. "Like angelic possession. They have to be in full possession of all the facts before they accept the position."

Sariel tilted her head. "Sounds fair."

"As we are serving our true purpose now," Cas said. "It sounds like it would be foolish to force unhappiness and misery upon the creatures God set us over to protect."

"Well put," Hannah agreed.

"Now," Sariel clasped her hands on the desk. "This chatter is important, but there are things more so. Castiel, you and Hanael must go to where the renegade angels are being held and free them from Metatron's post mortem control. Then, spread the word." She stood up straight, casting them all a decisive look. "Tell them that Sariel the Archangel has returned. Tell them that the age of dictators and forcing hand over humanity is over."

She smiled, and her eyes caught the faux light from outside one of Metatron's stained glass windows. "Tell them Heaven is facing it's restoration."

* * *

"So this is Heaven, huh?" Sam asked, casting an eye around as he sat next to Dean, biding their time on a set of seats by the Scribe's section of inner Heaven. He looked back to Dean. "I kinda expected more harps."

"Dude," Dean said, tiredly, but excited. "You've _been _to Heaven before."

"Sure," Sam said, still looking around critically. "Doesn't change the fact."

"Right," Dean agreed. He sighed and sat back. "You think this is it? You think we're nearly there?"

"Well, we're _far _from nearly there," Sam said, sinking into the memories of all the souls that must be captured beneath the earth. They still had to save them, still had to dig them out and set them free. "But, yeah. I think she's the real deal."

"How's the Tetanus doing, by the way?" Dean said, casting an eye over his brother. "Have to say, the heavenly juice box hasn't done anything for your looks."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Jerk." He cleared his throat, turning serious. "I'm not sure. I _do _know that I sensed that Sariel had lied to us when she told us she was a hunter, I just didn't know that I knew."

Dean nodded seriously. "Can you shoot lasers out of your nose?"

Sam snorted a laugh. "Right. Because I'd want to do that."

"As if you wouldn't. What the hell kind of TV did you watch as a kid?" Dean demanded. But then he cut Sam off before the younger brother could reply. "Oh yeah. National Geographic and all that other nerdy junk."

"Well, look who wants deformed lasers now," Sam informed Dean brightly.

"A Laser wouldn't be a deformation, it would be an improvement," Dean argued, looking at Sam like there were no two ways about it.

Sam just cast his brother a look. "Right."

* * *

"No wings," Hannah mused, slinking along beside Cas has he handed the tablet from angel to angel. Seraphina, Rosemary, Romeo, Uriah and other selected angels who had been loyal to Cas were caring for them, informing them of all that had happened while they were out, ensuring that they were well adjusted. Many remembered their time as captors within their own brain, some others like a possession victim, with brief flashes of sincerity and then a black slumber, and the rest simply awoke as if from a bad dream. And those were the ones who couldn't remember anything but the scream each made as they were turned inside out.

"Hannah," Cas said warningly. In conjunction with Sariel, who was addressing Hosts of angels now, they'd agreed to let the angels have a few moments of happiness and hope. The blow then wouldn't bestow a bitter memory onto Sariel, on becoming themselves.

"I'm sorry," Hannah apologised, smiling at an angel who was looking around itself. She calmed it before standing next to Cas. "But..." She held her jaw tightly, eyes fixed determinedly to the floor. "Oh, I will miss my wings."

"You still have them," Cas reminded her, feeling his own, the featherless lumps that they'd become quivering at their mention on his back. He didn't need Hannah's look to know what she meant. It wasn't the same, the spindly bone and muscle that they were left with. Still breathtakingly beautiful, harshly useless.

The cries and loud words of the assembled choirs around them gave the two friends privacy. Cas smiled at Hannah, sincerely smiled, like the world was rolling just so he could walk, like the sun shone just to warm his skin.

"The Archangel has returned. I had hoped Gabriel would come, but Sariel it powerful, and just."

"How can we be _sure_?" Hannah demanded, looking as though it had been weighing on her tongue for a considerable amount of time. "You trusted Metatron and we fell to the earth. You trusted Crowley and killed more angels than any war as ever seen."

"I trusted you, didn't I?" Cas asked her, softly, refusing to be moved to despair or anger by her words.

Hannah smiled but it was the ghost of what she had to give. He wanted to instil hope into her, to remind her of what it felt like to behold Sariel for the first time. In all her glory and goodness and light.

"Metatron fled because of Raphael and Michael," Hannah reminded him. "And we thought that that meant we were free to trust him. Sariel fled for the same reasons."

Cas shook his head. "She didn't flee. She was thrown, for showing dislike for what they were planning. She knew God, worked with him, believed in the things we believe in." Cas paused, searching for something to convince her. In the end, he went for the simplest thing, the most direct thing he could reach. "She is good, Hannah. I don't trust my instincts, but I do trust yours, and I trust Sam and Dean's.

Hannah looked up at him, Cas could sense her scouring his expression, for any amount of mistrust or lies. She peeked out a small smile.

Hannah nodded and turned to the angels who were healing from the tablets. "We'll be ok."

"Heaven will be ok," Cas agreed, looking out with her.

Hannah repeated it to herself again, more like she was addicted to the feeling the words left in the air than that she was trying to convince herself. "We'll be ok."

"_All _of us."

* * *

The room Sariel claimed as her own had once been Metatron's, but when Hannah returned to it by order of the archangel, it was already starting to change. The warm wood oak of the walls had been replaced by a wash of dark blue, and the walls had been lined with bookshelves, stuffed with files and novels and photographs. Behind Sariel was a swamp of maps and demographical charts and signs. The desk was unchanged, and there was still the same god awful carpet, but Hannah could feel the different. Like a shift in the air before a storm. Like the breath before the break of dawn.

"Hannah," Sariel stood to receive her. The windows of stained glass had been replaced as well, long rectangles cut into the walls between the blue. Hannah knew the sun was fake, but it didn't change the way it startled along Sariel's hair, that way it turned the blonde into a crown.

"Sariel," Hannah greeted in turn. Cas's words had nearly convinced her, but she needed proof. Cas was detriment enough to her trust in Angelic instinct, and despite what she knew in her heart to be true, her brain was not as convinced.

Sariel sat and gestured to the chair across from her. It was sleek, but still similar in design to the one Metatron had made. Then entire room was changing, almost before Hannah's eyes.

She was _certain _the carpet had been a shade or two lighter a moment ago.

"Do you like the refurbishments?" Sariel asked, looking around the changing room with Hannah. She smiled fondly. "I didn't do it on purpose, but...well. It's my home now. And it moulds to whoever lives here."

"Cas—" Hannah stopped herself, but continued when she saw Sariel look at her curiously. She cleared her throat and tried again. "It didn't change for Cas."

"No," Sariel agreed. "Curious, certainly. But, I'm sure I know why."

Hannah nodded meekly. "I think I know as well."

"Castiel never wanted to lead," Sariel said slowly. "He has only ever wanted to be an Angel. Every action, every happening that Cas has done since being freed from Heaven's control during the apocalypse, has been to better Heaven." Sariel's eyes alighted with a grim humour. "He follows the right map, but heads in the wrong direction."

"Not recently," Hannah said, not sharing the archangels amusement.

"No," Sariel agreed. "Which is why I called you here."

Hannah adjusted herself on the seat, nervous and curious, terrified that something terrible would happen.

What if she'd been _right_? What if Sariel was not to be trusted? Archangels no longer had the shining promise that they once had, they no longer held any sort of precedence in Hannah's mind. She'd been betrayed too often and worked too hard.

What if Sariel could sense that she and Cas were close, close as friends, close as family? What if she were to _use it against them_?

That fear that built itself in Hannah's spine came to a horrified standstill.

_What if_?

"Right," Hannah agreed. "Of course."

Sariel looked worried. Almost nervous as she beheld Hannah. "You led beside Cas, didn't you? During the rebellion and during his brief reign in Heaven?"

Hannah felt her hands start to shake, pressed up against each other, folded neatly in her lap. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Sariel bit her lip, and the nervousness spiked. "I was wondering, with Cas uninterested in any sort of position above what he'd once had...Hannah. I need a second in command I can trust."

Hannah felt the kicking in her stomach suddenly subside. Her hands unclenched and fell forgotten, fingers still entwined. She gaped openly at the angel. "What?" She burned red as she recognised her rudeness. "I, uh...sorry?"

Sariel looked like she had relaxed as well, now that what she'd wanted to say was out there. "Second in command, Hannah. You are good and kind, and you deserve this position more than any other angel. You have an infallible moral code, and a devotion to Heaven and your brothers and sisters." Sariel smiled slightly as she looked Hannah dead in the eye. "I don't...you don't _have _to say anything now. It's a big ask, and I know how close you have become with both Cas and the Winchesters. You won't be able to see them as much if you do. But please, consider it."

Hannah nodded slowly. "I will."

"Good," Sariel thanked her with a smile. "Feel no need to come quickly, I know this must be a difficult—"

"No," Hannah didn't have time now, lost between herself and the decision presented to her, to worry about properness. Sariel didn't seem offended, only puzzled. "I will. I'll do it. I'll be your second in command."

Sariel blinked in surprise. "Wait, don't make a decision you might regret."

"I'm not," Hannah said, and she smiled. "I'm certain."

Sariel smiled at her, and Hannah beamed back.

* * *

"Second in command, eh?" Dean asked, purposefully standing up pompous. "Well, I gotta say. I never voted for you."

Hannah scowled, but knew enough about Dean to know when he was joking. "I got the one vote that mattered."

"High five," Sam said, holding his hand up and realising the awkward situation he'd made when Hannah just stared at it dumbly. "Uh, so yeah." He folded his hand and placed it ashamedly behind his back. "But seriously, Hannah, good job. You deserve this."

"Sam's right," Cas agreed, looking at Hannah with a brilliant warmth in his blue eyes. "She could not have chosen with more wisdom."

Hannah smiled shyly. "Thank you, Castiel."

They were all seated on the couches Sam and Dean had claimed before. The brothers had spent their time reconstructing their favourite scenes from Star Wars with a set of three day old newspapers, and had both quickly swept Obi Wan under the table when Cas and Hannah arrived. The angels had impeded on an argument about whether Hans and Leia kissing was memorable enough, and Dean had called Sam a nerd all of three times in his argument against.

The only one of Hannah and Cas who had any idea of what they were talking about was Cas, but even he had no idea why they were arguing about fictional characters.

"Right," Dean said, smacking his hands together. "Why are me and Sam still here?"

Cas looked uncomfortable. "Well, Sariel has managed to convince me to force you to stay to speak to her before you go. But obviously, I can't force you to do anything."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "That's obvious to you?"

"Is she busy?" Sam asked, looking over to the door Hannah had just walked out from, her knees uncharacteristically shaky, her eyes unfathomable as she looked over to them. Her chin had shifted, when she told the news. From confused to proud.

She nodded. "Yes. There are many matters that must be seen to immediately."

Sam agreed with her. Sam was proud of her as well.

He wondered if she would be too busy to see he and Dean now, whether she'd be free to speak to them, to smile at them. He hoped not. Because eventually things would settle down, and the earth and Heaven and Hell would return to how they were before the catastrophe struck.

Before Lucifer fell, before Abaddon crawled back out of the depths to try and wrought chaos over the world.

Crowley would take care of Hell, and Sariel of the heavens.

"When do we go in?" Dean asked. He looked over to Hannah, who looked as in the dark about the situation as they were.

She just shrugged. "No idea. She'll call you in."

"Kinda weird to be waiting on someone who gave you their sandwich," Sam murmured, tapping absently at the space on his chest where the gouges from the Hounds had been.

"Speaking of," Cas said suddenly. "What differences have you noticed, with the archangel's blood in your veins?"

Sam just shook his head. "Not much. I mean, there's that feeling I get in the bottom of my stomach when someone lies, and I sensed that it was Sariel behind the door this morning before she opened it, but other than that..." he let it trail off.

Before Cas, frowning and considerate, could go any further with the line of questioning, the door to Sariel's office swung open.

The brothers exchanged meaningful looks and then stood, nodding to Cas and Hannah and walking beside each other into the room.

Dean closed the door behind them and they both took in the new navy room. The pictures on the side struck a deep chord within Sam, so deep he knew that the pictures must change from person to person. There was the Polaroid Jess had convinced him to participate in, her grinning up at the lens, him smiling meekly, the Californian sun an orange, hazy circle setting along the horizon behind them. Sam was certain that it, along with all the other pictures of them when their house had burnt to the ground. But there it sat. Like it had never been touched.

Sam bit a breath as he took in his wife-to-be's face. He felt something deflate inside of him as he realised that he'd begun to forget what her face had looked like.

The rest of the pictures were equally heartbreaking. He almost felt tears pricking the corner of his eye as he took all of them in. He and Dean, younger than he could remember, dressed up in winter gear and grinning at some camera. Dean had his arm around Sam's shoulders, and the eyes he inherited from their mother were round and large, determinedly bright as he laughed at something the person behind the camera had said.

Sam didn't say anything as he sat down. Not as Sarah smiled at them, not as the light from outside brightened to allow for more visibility, not as he realised the feeling of sickness he'd thought was sadness was actually a biting, burning coil of utter _happiness_.

_This_ is what Heaven should be like. Not the half forgotten memory of some dog he'd run away with, not a dinner with a girl he hadn't really liked.

But this, this room with his family adorned in silver and gold, this was where he belonged. This was where he wanted to stay.

Where he could bask in that biting, beautiful pain. Where he could fall asleep, staring so hard at Jess's lost face that when he closed his eyes, her smile was imprinted on the back of his lids.

"So," Sariel finally said, both of them snapping to attention. Sam spared a quick glance to Dean and saw that his brother was equally affected, throat tightening as he swallowed. "Here it ends."

"Here it does," Dean agreed. "We made it, we floated like butterflies, stung like bees and now we're on our way to Rocky IV."

"Quite," Sariel agreed. She looked around the room. "What do you think of the refurbishing?"

"I like it," Sam answered, honest, embarrassed by how raw his words sounded as he said them. He coughed awkwardly. "It's nice."

"Does it change for everyone?" Dean said, obviously indicating the pictures on the wall. Sam caught another one in the corner of his eye, the one Dean had kept of their mother.

Their lives had been ruined avenging Mary's memory, but Sam was proud that he and Dean never lost track of the truth behind who was at fault. It was the demons, it was the angels. It was Fate herself, spinning the golden thread.

Sariel nodded, looking as well at the frames. She was nostalgic, the air had changed. "I can't see anything, and neither can any other angel. We were not programmed to understand regret and loss."

"That can't be right," Sam said, intent, voice barely above a whisper. He moved his head to meet her as she tried to look away. "It can't be. Look at Cas. Look at _you_."

"Well," Sariel agreed. "Castiel and I were always odd eggs. Doesn't mean that the frames will fill for us." Sariel's mouth puckered into a bitter smile. "Angels aren't big on taking photos, capturing memories."

"No," Dean agreed.

The three fell silent, each trapped in their own worlds, pursued by their own demons.

"Now," Sariel blinked into the present. "We talked some at the motel, but I'm sure you have questions. Before the world catches up to us, let's take a moment."

"Questions?" Sam asked. "I have _thousands _of questions. The real problem is where to start."

Sariel smiled and laughed, her voice toiled like bells. "What about the beginning; Chronologically, where does you _first _question lie?"

Sam sorted through all he wanted to know, before finally selecting one.

"It's not chronological, but..." he looked over to Dean, who seemed as curious as Sarah about where Sam was going with this. Sam was surprised. Surely Dean would have caught on. But as their eyes met, understanding flared in his big brothers eyes and with a flash, Dean gave his permission. Sam met Sariel's gaze dead on. "How can you help us get the souls held in Hell?"

"Oh," Sariel said, startled, obviously falling far from where she had thought he'd be heading. "_Oh_. Uh, yes. Of course." She picked up a pen and span it between her fingers. "What do you suggest?" She looked down, lost in thought, scanning through her borrowed memories. "Remind me," she looked up. "What did Crowley say _exactly_?"

"When I..." Sam paused for a moment, remembering Death's warning, but then continuing on with only a little hesitation. "When I died, Crowley took me to Hell, but he didn't put me into the inferno."

"Which was on me," Dean butted in.

"No, Dean," Sam said tiredly, "it wasn't."

Sariel sent him a look, and even though he wished he didn't, he felt a turning in his gut that he'd come to recognise. That someone, this time that someone being him, was not telling the truth.

But Sariel didn't bring it up, and neither did Sam. Some things were better left untruthful, some things were better left in the dark, where they could fester off to die. There were some things were replacement was not only easier, it was crucial. Telling Dean would strain him irreparably, it would hurt Sam, it would hurt everyone who had ever been and ever will be in contact with them.

People didn't need to know that Dean Winchester had sent his little brothers soul to hell in the keep of the King of the basement. People didn't need to know how much had been left up to chance and the few drops of humanity still pumping around the demons veins.

And Dean didn't need to know either.

"Anyway," Sariel said flippantly, the moment of the lie lost as the twisting in his stomach eased. "What did Crowley say?"

"That he would have liked the full set," Dean summarised. "Or something like that. And there are no souls in Heaven that belonged to any of the Hunters."

"We asked Cas to scope the place," Sam added. He shook his head. "No change from what we already knew."

"What do you remember?" Sariel asked Sam. "From your time in Hell?"

"White walls, Crowley came to him and they talked. There were no obvious signs of Hell from where Sam was, and he thought he was alone," Dean recited diligently, practically word for word that Sam had said it when Cas had first asked him before they'd both set off to the Mouth to Hell.

Sam nodded in agreement but Sariel looked confused.

"Crowley had my mind wiped," Sam explained hurriedly. "We had Hannah un-wipe it to relocate the memories and then re-wipe so I wouldn't, you know," Sam screwed up his face as he searched for a word. He waved his hand flippantly. "Go insane."

Sariel's eyebrows moved towards her hairline. "Fair enough." She looked back to Dean. "So we think the souls are being held in some sort of prison in Hell? But one _without _the torture?"

Dean nodded. "We assumed that Crowley was using them for information. You forget things in the pit. All your humanity gets tortured out of you, and so do all your memories."

"Did you forget things?" Sariel asked, intrigued. "When you were down there?"

Sam felt Dean shift and knew that this was more than a sore spot for his brother. This was a sheet draped over the worst 40 years anyone could ever experience. This was all the worst things in the world burnt to ashes and forced down your throat.

Sam knew Dean wouldn't answer if he didn't want to, so he was surprised when he did. "Yeah. But all my memories were restored when Cas returned me to Earth."

Sariel cocked her head. "Curious. But not unfathomable. And you were right, 40 years, and I do not mean to make any suggestion about the pain you felt down there, is not much compared to what some get."

"Right," Dean agreed, the shifting abruptly stopped, body stilling with the memories of Hell. Memories he'd only have to revisit as he went there with Sam again.

They'd both been. But this time, at least they'd be together.

"So," Sariel said again. "What do you suggest?"

"We'll need a team," Dean said. "At least one angel. But too many and we'll draw attention to ourselves."

Sarah nodded in affirmation. "Smart. Who else?"

"Any other Hunters willing," Sam said. "Garth Fitzgerald, Jody Mills, Tracy Bell, Alex, maybe even some friendly monsters."

"You'll need to make sure you've got a small group," Sariel said warningly. "Hell might not be as sensitive as Heaven to intrusion, but it _would _pick up on more than four or five souls still perfect. Even then it's only a matter of time."

"Right," Dean agreed. "So, five willing Hunters and an Angel."

Sariel nodded. "I'll find someone for you."

"What about Cas?" Dean frowned, wondering where the confusion of the identity of the angel was coming from. "Wouldn't he come?"

Sarah just gave a small smile. "Farewell, boys. I am far too busy now to entertain you, and must insist you get back to earth and sleep off the past few days."

Sam swayed as he stood, thinking about sleep. Dean had managed to catch a few winks the night before, but Sam had stayed up, watching out should Sarah prove to be hostile, should she want to come back.

"Sounds good," he murmured, reaching out instinctively to latch on to Dean as he threatened to fall again.

"Alright bud," Dean said heavily. He turned to Sarah apologetically. She was still sitting, watching them prepare to leave with a mild amusement. "Sorry. He gets clingy when he's tired."

"I don't blame him," Sarah said. "It's been a rough couple of days."

They made their way to the door, and before they could leave, Sariel called after them.

"I'll tell you the identity of the angel I've assigned to you in a few days," she said.

Neither Winchester missed on what she was really doing, and they were more grateful than irritated. Dean knew in a day or two, he'd start getting angry, but as he and Sam made their way through the door, cutting off the room of navy and memory, he was certain that Sariel had done everything in her power to make everything perfect.

The under layer was practically tangible. _Take a few days off. Rest. Your friends will not know the difference that a mere number of hours might give._

It didn't help either of the brothers psyches as they made their way back to earth.

It did nothing for their guilt.

* * *

"A lot of angels are calling for your head, Cas," Sarah informed the previous Caretaker of heaven with a wry sigh and a look of almost boredom, like she'd been put off by the number of times she'd heard the same story.

Cas tried not to remember how hard he'd worked on taking care of Heaven when no one else would, how fiercely he'd believed in the world and his brothers and sisters during and after the fall. So he just let out a small, "Oh," and hoped Sariel would get to the end of where she was going quickly.

"Obviously, I'm not going to do that," she said, leaning back, smiling at him as he relaxed. "I've seen what they never have, and I understand."

"Thank you," Cas breathed, feeling his fingers release, feeling his heart resume normal rhythm.

"But, you _do _need to be punished, and the Winchesters need an angel to go with them into Hell."

Cas understood immediately. "So then it would look like I'm repenting for my crimes."

"Sending you somewhere you'd want to be anyway," Sariel finished. She smiled. "Neat, how the world works out sometimes, isn't it?"

"Yes," Cas agreed, feeling his mind sort through what he'd need to do, who he'd need to talk to, what he'd need to bring.

"Before you go, though," Sariel said quickly. She folded her hands awkwardly on the table. All that persona she had portrayed when Cas had walked through the door had become lost.

Cas was curious about Sariel. She changed at the drop of the hat. One moment she was Dido, sitting amongst the Carthaginians, delivering verdicts and resolving disputes, and the next she was scrambling, a lost little girl staring at an entire abyss. Maybe now she got it. Maybe now she saw how the rest of her existence would pan out.

She would lead forever, and the weight would never cease.

She was a storm front promising vital winds and a howl of a hurricane, when in fact she was the warm winds floating towards the sea. That false ferocity would one day whittle away to where it was no longer necessary, but it wasn't now. It wasn't today.

Today the angels needed a tough leader. But soon enough, all they would need was her gentle warm and a guiding hand.

"Don't go, uh..._just_ yet," she said hesitantly, not quite meeting Cas's eyes. "Give them three days. Three days to rest. For the Angelic blood in Sam's stream to begin to thaw. They've been through a lot. And they're so _tired_."

"I know," Cas said, finding his voice low, his throat raw. "I will. Thank you, Sariel. You will do well here."

"I hope so," Sariel smiled, reverting back to her storm status, back arched like the grand swoop of a lions, shoulders squared and ready to catch whatever was thrown at her.

Cas smiled back. Because there was that word again. The one everyone had been whispering with round, shining eyes and determined, clenched hands. _Hope_.

* * *

"Hi, Sam," Sariel said.

The dream world Sam had created for himself had been horrific when the archangel had come to see him. She'd closed her eyes to the images and changed them, wiping her hand across it and fixing into something a little more aesthetically pleasing than the depths of Lucifers cage.

Now they sat opposite each other in a library. It was nondescript and typical, leather chairs placed around low lying coffee tables, murmuring students milling around, holding books they'd been recommended. The lady librarian tended to the fire beside them, poking the smouldering logs with a long metal stick.

"Hey, Sarah," Sam greeted back. He didn't seem surprised that she was there with him, but then again, the dreaming rarely find surprise in anything. Sarah had been relieved when she'd found that she could still jump into dreams. The conversation she wanted to have was private.

It'd only taken a day for Sarah to realise that Sam went nearly nowhere without his brother.

"So," she said. "How are things?"

"Things are good," Sam answered honestly. He frowned, looking around. "I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

"In a way," Sarah acknowledged. "But everything happening now is entirely real. I'm here, and you're here, and we both have full control over ourselves."

"Awesome," Sam said. "So, yeah. Things have been good. Me and Dean have both clocked out. We managed to find a motel a little closer than the one by those woods."

"That's good," Sarah said sincerely. "I'm glad you are both safe."

"Yeah." Sam's smile turned awkward. "So, anyway...why are you paying me a visit again?"

"A number of reasons," Sariel said. "The first being that I haven't decided who I'm going to be sending with you yet."

"Right," Sam arched an eyebrow, disbelieving.

Sariel smiled widely. "Right." She affirmed.

Sam smiled and the dream turned warmer. The chill not entirely killed off by the crackling flames of the small fire beside them created by the darkest depths of Sam's nightmares started to abate. He was curiously resourceful and strong.

_He'd have to be_, she mused, casting her mind through all her borrowed memories, pausing significantly at the ones where Sam had suffered. And there were a lot.

"And secondly, I know that you're curious about the effects of my blood."

"Right, yeah," Sam said, without the enthusiasm she would have expected. This must have showed, because he hastily gestured pointlessly to help explain. "It's just...how much does it matter, in the scheme of things? Tomorrow me and Dean will be asking people to risk their lives. I mean it's not exactly _high _on the list of priorities right now."

"Does Dean agree with that?"

Sam shrugged. "Probably."

"Well, you're wrong," Sarah said. "On both counts. Dean is so worried about you, Sam. It kills him to see you suffer. Every moment you suffer, he watches to make sure you couldn't be made more ok. Even after Hannah healed you, he was desperate that you weren't still hurt. He's worried about the angel blood. And you should be too."

"Because it reminds him of Ruby and Azazel?" Sam guessed, and Sarah heard the bitterness.

"Somewhat," she inclined her head to agree. "But much has changed since then. The lines between monsters and the good guys has been blurred. You started that, Sam. You were a thing that some of the 'good guys' wanted to hunt, and you were so _purely _good that it convinced him otherwise."

"Took a while," Sam muttered.

"It did," Sarah agreed. "But, back to you, Sam. Angelic blood is different from demonic. It won't last long in your system. _Especially _in your system. So it'll wear away."

Sam hesitated. "Huh."

"What's wrong?"

"Well, when Gadreel possessed me, he left some grace inside," Sam gestured to his neck. "It wasn't enough to track him, but, you know..." he looked so nonplussed, but Sariel could tell what he was about to say had been eating at him. "I thought...Heaven vs. Hell and all that crap, that you know, by _now_, all of the demon blood would have just been...washed away."

Sariel didn't say anything. But she felt her heart snap into two.

"And for another thing," he said. "The trials. I thought _they _were curing me. Turns out that wasn't true either. I mean, I'm human enough to cure a demon." His voice cracked, but his eyes were a firm tired. He didn't look bothered, he didn't look like any of this touched him at all. Practised Apathy. Sariel loathed the world for what it had made the younger of the Winchester brothers. "But I'm still..._not_."

"You _are, _or the angel blood never would have worked," Sariel insisted.

Sam looked at her for a second, before dismissing her claim. "You can't know that for sure."

"I'm _sorry _that you're still suffering," Sarah blurted out. "I'm _sorry _that I wasn't there, that this fucked up plan was allowed to move through. I'm so, so _sorry _for all of it."

"Oh God, it's not your fault," Sam said suddenly, reaching out and clasping her wrist, just above her hand. "Please, don't blame yourself."

"Well, it's what _you _do," Sarah said, and she gently moved her hand away. Their hands disentangled and Sam watched her, breathless. "We blame ourselves and our courage is an illusion. But you do it far too often."

Sam just looked at her. He wouldn't be swayed, not now. Sarah saw that. But she also saw that there was a crumbling in his mind, a tremble in the foundations of his self blame. Perhaps one day, with the help of Dean and all else, she could prove to him that he was worthy of every affection. That he was unworthy of the blame he heaped onto himself.

It wasn't today. But Sariel swore that it would be some day.

She'd taken a special interest in these two presentations of humanity. In how tightly Dean squeezed his eyes closed when he tried to go to sleep, on that wary look Sam got every time he was introduced to a new angel. They were so unashamedly human. So unfaithfully lost.

"You are blessed by me," Sariel informed him. "You are granted the easiest of routes to Heaven when you meet your end. One day you will see how you have suffered and know it for what it is; not payment but punishment."

Sam shuffled, made as if to speak but said nothing.

Sarah hadn't expected any more.

"Goodnight, Sam," she said, smiling at him.

"Good bye," he said, like it was the last time he would see her.

And in a way, he was almost right.

_And Our courage is an illusion._

She stood and fixed her hand over his forehead, mothering him, pushing his hair back before he closed his eyes and she disappeared, leaving him to roam the corridors of the library she'd left him in. In that small bit of comfort at the back of his mind.

* * *

"Who have we got?" Dean asked, looking down at the brainstormed names. There were some under 'definitely not', like those Hunters who had tried to kill them (it was a typically extensive list) and those who didn't care either way. Matthew was among them for his not-caring attitude, as well as a few others who put Dean in a decisively bad mood when he saw them.

Carlos, Tracy Bell and a few others had made the jump into the maybe section, but they were all hard people to trust. And Dean and Sam knew without a doubt that they'd say no to an expedition to the depths of Hell.

In the 'to call' list was Tamara, who might be interested in getting Isaac somewhere safe, then Jody and Alex. Dean was sure Jody wouldn't hear of allowing Alex to go through that sort of thing, but having met them both, he knew who'd win in a fight of that sort of calibre.

And it wasn't the sheriff.

Garth was there as well, but other than them, the list seemed a pitifully empty.

"Well, we haven't got an armada," Sam said, tapping his pen next to the pad. Dean thought that if they couldn't think of anyone within a reasonable time frame, it was probably a good call that they weren't going to be worth calling.

"Ok," Dean stated after a moment. "Do you want to call Jody, or shall I?"

Sam smiled and glaring, Dean snatched the phone off the table, preparing to enter in the policeman's number.

"_Dean_?"

"Hey, Sheriff," Dean greeted easily. "See, we have a bit of a favour to ask."

"_Yeah? What would that be? Not another Hell Hound, right?"_

"Well, funny you should mention Hell," Dean said easily. Sam was watching him, but Dean ignored his younger brother. He needed to be in the mode if he was going to charm Jody into their suicide mission. "Because, well, to put it lightly, you ever seen that movie where all those women are held in that prison and they need to escape before they're all killed? And then that American Dude comes and he's sort of the game changer?"

There was a pause on the line. "_Wait, you mean Chicken Run_?"

"Sure," Dean allowed. "Anyway, you're sort of our American Dude."

Jody swore, loudly. "_You two are planning on sneaking into Hell? You've got to be kidding me!_"

"No, sorry," Dean said. "We sorta think there might be some Hunter's souls down there that were intercepted and don't deserve it. We'd like to, you know, set them free."

Jody paused again. "_I can't believe you tried to get me into a Hell Heist by referencing Chicken Run. And calling me a rooster._"

"I thought it was inspirational."

Jody changed the tone decisively. Her voice dropped and Dean could tell that she was holding the phone closer to her mouth so that she wouldn't have to speak as loudly. "_You really need my help on this one, boy_?"

"We do," Dean told her. "And we can't let them stay down there."

There was a moment of silence. Dean knew she was mulling it over, thinking it through. She had responsibilities now, she had Alex.

"_Ok. Count me in, Dean._"

* * *

_Sam just wants to be happy I don't understand why the world is such a black place_

_Ok relax from now on Sariel/Sarah is going to take a much more back seat view, attending to the affairs of Heaven while Cas and the boys watch Adventure Time and build pillow forts._

_...what's that? Ah yes I've just been informed that the show I was talking about does not exist. What I mean to say was, she'll be a watchful, distant God while the boys and Cas make their way through Hell to save the souls of their friends._

_Let's be real I would so watch a show where Cas, Dean and Sam build pillow forts and have movie marathons. That would be so hella rad and cute and non-die-y._

_Next chapter: **The Taking of Perdition One Two Three**_


	9. The Taking of Perdition One Two Three

_How's it hanging ladies?_

_Anyway, welcome to the mid-season finale equivalent. I'd apologise for this taking so long, but this is nearly 16k words, which is nearly double one of my previous chapters, which is sort of ridiculous_

_And this was WAY hard to write. I had to plan EVERYTHING out and stuff. Damn. Writing. *Shakes fist*_

_Researched: Nothing_

_Rewatch: 8x14 Trial and Error_

_New Tags: Hell, Hell Hound, Hell Gate, Resurrection, Meg Masters (Demon)_

* * *

"_This is my Winter Song to you_

_the storm is coming soon._

_It rolls in from the sea._

_My love a beacon in the night_

_My words will be a light_

_to carry you_

_to me."_

_ - _Winter Song, _Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

Seraphina had never been the best of her regiment. There had always been those prepared to go above and beyond, those prepared to step in and go above the norm. But not her. She was content with the back seat, content to watch the sun as the earth span in dizzying circles. Content enough to stretch out and stare at the stars.

But, like all angels, everything about her world had changed when they fell from heaven. She'd had to grow strong, had to keep one hand on her angel blade and the other in a fist. She'd been forced to adapt, to survive. To fully appreciate what she had and to finally understand why all those other angels tried so much harder than her to succeed.

Sariel had been a change of scenery, someone _true _to work for, to work under. Sariel was done with the grand plans that all the other angels were so tired of, she was through with trying to fix things that weren't broken.

So when Sarah invited Seraphina to lead a group of angels to track down the missing weapons from the inventory of Heaven, she'd heartily accepted.

It had taken a while. An agonizing crawl without their wings and even slower trying to figure out the particulars of Balthazar's mind. He'd been tricky, and clever, and constantly looking out for only himself. They were all odd traits for angels, and along with empathy being sidelined as one of the possible attributes to a member of the host, even more difficult than if they had been humans.

On Earth, though, Seraphina had learnt basic compassion and the depth of human decency, so it hadn't taken as long as it would have had.

Berlin sunk around the sky like a tide rising up to reach a shore. Built high were modern buildings and ancient churches alike, and glittering along the earth tiny lights like little lanterns squared off and beckoned to the muddied sky. From the south, storm clouds the size of cathedrals threatened, blocking over the sky and the sinking sun, the brilliant orange and yellow lost within its grey and black haze.

Seraphina arched her neck up to the heavens as she and the other ten angels from heaven heralded to this task climbed out of the taxis.

"It's sort of beautiful, isn't it?" Darda said, tilting his head as he peered to where the sun would be setting if it wasn't for the extreme overcast.

"It is," Seraphina agreed. She tilted her head down to the West to join him while the rest climbed out. "I wonder if the sun will ever break through. I wonder if it hasn't already set yet."

"It's dark enough," he commented, letting out a steamed breath. He grimaced. "And cold enough."

Seraphina nodded in agreement, before turning her attention to those in her charge.

"We're all ready? Good."

The Hotel wasn't the best in Berlin. It didn't rate along the top or the most expensive, but Balthazar's taste and narcissism had leant some of the clues to it being reasonably upmarket. But he had no idea how long he'd need to keep it open, and he could only leech off the account of his vessel for so long before all the funds dried out.

So there they stood, as the first of the great storms that would be coming that night pattered down on their shoulders.

Seraphina lead them in, to the front desk where she advanced, the rest standing in an awkward huddle in the middle of the room.

The boy had no way of knowing who she and the Choir gathered behind her were, but she found his disdain irritating all the same. They had guarded his kind for centuries! True, they had tried to end most of humanity during the times of Michael and Raphael and Zachariah, but they'd changed and adapted. He couldn't have known, but he _should have_.

"Can I help you?" he asked in German, and so Seraphina reverted to that as well.

"Yes. We need your help." She looked at him cautiously, hands resting on the bench in front of where he was sitting. Her vessel was too short for it to be the menacing pose it would have been if a larger person had done it, but it worked all the same. He pulled back slightly, giving her a once over. "There is a room here. That would have been booked out for over four years. We need it."

"Excuse me?" He asked, looking at her as if she was crazy, and forced her hands off the table as he rested his elbows on them, smirking up at her. "You're seriously insane, you know that?"

"I am not," Seraphina stated angrily, tired enough of hearing that from the other angels. That she was too flighty, too irresponsible. Wrong. "And I am _right_."

"You and your friends are going to have to leave," he said, returning to his paperwork, that irritating smirk still a fixture on his face, still pressingly mocking her. "All fifty of them."

Seraphina slammed her hand on the table. At least it dropped the smirk, but as he turned to her, Seraphina realised she was going to have to do something drastic.

_So be it_, she thought, and her eyes glowed blue.

"There is a room in this hotel that has been hired and never used for the past five years," Seraphina stated coldly, glaring down at him. "And you _will _take us to it."

* * *

"There's nothing here," Schemhampharae said angrily, turning to Seraphina sharply, his eyes burning into hers.

Seraphina was equally distressed. She'd been _so sure_. Where else could it be? Why else would Balthazar set up this hotel room and make such an effort to be quiet about it? A fake name, a back end hotel, _everything_.

Seraphina ran a hand through her hair as she took in the rest of the angels in her care rummaging through the room. It was only a matter of time before they started ripping into walls or tearing the bed apart, and though, personally, Seraphina really had no qualms, they were on a stealth mission.

At this point, the smirking boy, wouldn't be spilling any information about 'scary glowing eyes' or her vessel's description to the police, but trash the room and he'd have to.

"Ok," she finally sighed, raising her hands to catch their attention. "Ok, I'm calling it. They are not here."

Rosemary, an angel who had been trusted by Castiel enough to lead one of the branches into Heaven during Metatron's control, rubbed a hand across the back of her neck and sported a wry smile. "After his death and he _still _fools us."

"We are back to the start," Schemhampharae snapped, not in good humour. "Do not make light of such a situation."

"Are we?" Darda asked, moving through the other angels and leaning towards a place card on the bedside drawers. He frowned, picking it up and showing the gathered angels. "Does this seem odd to anyone else?"

"Should it?" Seraphina asked, glancing over it, puzzled.

"It's..." Darda shook his head. "While I was on Earth, I learned much. My vessel was the teacher at a high school. They'd all just had exams, so he was allowing them to watch a movie. And they were watching Titanic."

"Titanic?" A voice from the back asked. "What teacher allows that? There's a scene of fornication!"

"You're familiar with it?" Seraphina turned to the speaker, who was a shocked angel by the name of Joel.

He nodded. "Of course. I watched many movies while on earth." He frowned, turning back to the business at hand. "It does seem out of place. I mean, the movie was American, and it came out nearly two decades ago."

Seraphina suddenly stopped, heart beat racing as she raced over what she had just realised. "While Balthazar was on Earth, he went _back _in time to save the titanic from sinking."

"It was a real ship?"

Everyone ignored Schemhampharae's outburst and listened attentively to Seraphina.

"So perhaps, when he went back to _resink _it, he left the weapons there."

"In the bottom of the ocean," Darda realised, eyes widening.

Seraphina grinned harshly. "And he left that here, as a clue, for angels thrown from heaven."

"Who would _understand_," Rosemary nodded.

"There are doorways that open to the bottom of the ocean," Seraphina said determinedly, catching the eye of every angel under her command. "Come."

* * *

The salt water pulled at Seraphina's hair.

They moved through it like phantoms. Their eyes bulging and their clothes streaming around them, like every side was buffeted by an unbeatable wind.

They stood around the treasure that Balthazar had made so hard to find.

Seraphina grinned, that savage grin of victory and bent down. Her vessels' fingers were cumbersome with cold, but the constant healing rate held off frostbite, and they were movable enough for her to pick up what she was aiming for.

Her hand closed around a small piece of metal. A tiny, powerful key.

"Tell Sariel," she managed to convey to Darda, who nodded, tearing his sight away from the pile of weapons.

They were going to need a hell of a lot more angels.

* * *

"So it was a success then?" Cas asked, sitting opposite Sariel, 2 days after he'd promised to wait three to go help the Winchesters. He hadn't felt any resentment towards Sariel for making him wait. The brothers needed their rest, and they needed to take care of the aches that went a little further than healing would be able to help.

Sariel nodded, smiling. "Seraphina and her team were able to salvage nearly all that was taken by Balthazar after Sam and Dean stopped the apocalypse."

"Well, that is a relief," Cas said, sighing slightly. "I believe Balthazar suspected that I was going to become devoted to the drive for power more than my care for Heaven."

Sariel looked disbelieving. "Well, I don't think his motives were as pure as that, but we must thank him for holding out for as long as he did."

"He knew we'd find them eventually," Cas said, as a statement.

"Well, there wasn't much chance that we wouldn't," Sariel said. "Anyway, as you must go to the Winchesters in a day, I have allocated some things crucial to your mission."

Cas leaned forward towards the parcels on the table. One was very small, only large enough to carry perhaps a key, or a necklace. And the second was longer, a scroll or the bone of an unfortunate rare animal for a spell.

"The key to Hell?" Cas guessed, nodding to the smaller of the parcels.

Sariel smiled and nodded. She held her hand over it and it untied, the string falling over itself to untangle itself. Then the material containing the object fell, and blinking up at them was a small key made entirely from obsidian.

"This will work?" Cas frowned, not exactly in awe of the tiny thing.

"Samuel Colt created a lock over the mouth to Hell that could only be unlocked by his limited edition gun," Sarah said. "We created a key that unlocks all things."

"Including hell," Cas said.

Sarah nodded. "Especially Hell. And then—" she held her hand over the second parcel and Cas was quietly satisfied when a scroll unrolled itself as per his second guess.

"A map," Cas concluded, looking down at it.

"Yes. But this map marks out the area of a person, no matter where they are," Sarah said, almost excitedly. "Look!" she pointed down. "Heaven is difficult to map outside out offices, but of that it does it easily. Here is my office, and then the rooms that Naomi used to use to wipe minds, and then over here, are the dungeons."

"And this will work in Hell as well?" Cas asked, impressed.

Sarah smiled, excited, like she was a child at Christmas, "Yes. Yes! Isn't that amazing?"

"It is," Cas admitted. "It's amazing."

Cas settled back and the seals resealed and the parcels repacked, and carefully, Cas reached across and put them into his pockets.

"One more thing, before you go, Cas," Sariel said awkwardly. She looked suddenly tired again, tired and ancient and wise. "I'm afraid...I think that there might be an angel resistance forming on Earth."

Cas felt his blood cool. He knew that there had been angels loyal to the archangels before Sariel and felt that God's plan truly had been to sacrifice all those souls and lead the righteous to paradise, but he thought that their belief in that would have been stemmed with Sariel's instatement. But, apparently not.

"How do you think?"

"Nothing concrete yet," Sarah said, almost as if she was assuring herself. "But there are angels who you allowed to go to earth who have not reappeared. And I cannot find them."

"So either their dead or..."

"They'd set up warding, yes," Sarah nodded. She looked at Cas hopefully. "I know it's an ask, but while you're on Earth, maybe after you see the Winchesters, if you could just _find _them, then maybe we'd have a chance of convincing them that they're wrong."

"They're only a few angels," Cas placated. "I'm sure they'll be no match for you."

"_You _were just one Angel," Sarah reminded him. "And you defeated Heaven. Sam Winchester was just one man and he defeated the devil and ruined the apocalypse. Crowley was just a crossroads demon. And now he's king of Hell." Sarah sighed and ran a hand through her blonde hair. "Never underestimate the power of just one person, Cas."

* * *

It took Jody three days to lose Alex.

At the start, Alex'd just meet her along the route, and, rolling her eyes, she'd carry her adoptive daughter back into the car and back home. Alex would grumble, but she wouldn't yell, and she didn't complain. The first time this happened, Jody assumed that it was because she'd seen the error of her ways. Or something along those lines.

Of course, it couldn't be further from the truth.

Alex was a creature of intelligence and cunning. She'd been raised on deceit, and been fed lies ever since she'd been kidnapped by that family of Vampires. Jody honestly shouldn't have been surprised when she saw Alex sitting quietly at the booth closest to the door. Obviously the girl assumed that the more pressure applied, the more likely it was that Jody was going to let her come along. She was stubborn, but Jody could be stubborn as well.

So this time, Jody made _very _sure Alex understood exactly what was happening. It was bad enough that she'd overheard and decided that warranted an invitation, but her continuous pressing for a ride was worrying to Jody.

It'd been on the third time that she'd finally threatened a babysitter. Alex was more than capable of taking care of herself, especially considering that it was Winter Holidays, and she spent most of her time pouring over Jody's collection of old books and wandering around Sioux Falls, seeing everything the world had to offer (which was far from what Sioux Falls had to offer, but it was a good place to start) through a different set of eyes.

Jody eased into the motel that the boys had said they'd meet her. They had left their room number on her phone, and when she reached out to pick it out of her bag, she noticed that it was off. It didn't bother her immensely, she hated being called when driving. But turning her phone completely off was more than unorthodox, it was dangerous. With the world she adopted came a set of rules. Always be contactable. Always have a way to ask for help.

But still. It wasn't a dangerous drive. She could have fallen back into old habits (unlikely, but possible) and switched it off to uphold her area of the law or whatever.

Not in the mood to guess andd knock on the doors near the gleaming black impala stretched out like it was sunbathing in the car park, Jody held down the button to turn it on.

She felt her throat twitch and the blood slow near the surface of her skin as bleeting noises introduced the calls she had missed. There were two from Dean, and three from Sam. And they were all from within the last 15 minutes.

"Oh, _shit_," Jody murmured, glancing up again, hoping to reach Dean and Sam quickly to find what the problem was. She spared a moment to check the room number before hopping out of her truck and half running to the door emblazoned with a brass _14._

She knocked quickly and waited, agitated, feet bouncing as movement from inside told her that the Winchesters weren't at their deathbeds. Or at least, not yet.

The door shuddered and Jody assumed one of them was looking out the spy whole, then chains clinked, the door was unlocked and Sam's face poked out from around the door.

"Hey, Jody."

"Sam," Jody smiled, stepping in as the door widened. She saw Dean next, watching her with almost expressionless eyes, if it weren't for the obvious worry. "Dean. What was with all the—"

It was who she saw third that stopped her in her tracks. Her eyes narrowed and she squared her shoulders, one hand on each hip. "_Alex_?"

"Hey, Jody," Alex greeted, picking a piece of Mars Bar Slice out a container. "Hungry?"

"Are you—" she turned to Sam. "Is she—? I can't..." She turned vehemently onto Dean. "_You let her stay_?"

"Hey, she only just arrived," Dean put his hands up in a surrendering position.

Jody was lost for words, leaving her to just gape as Alex chewed on the slice she'd been making when Jody had left her the second time. She pushed through her surprised and deployed her no nonsense tone. "That's it. You're going home. _Right _now."

"No, I'm not," Alex answered. "I'm here now. I might as well help."

Jody gave her a look. "Ok, that is _not _how it works. Alex, you're _16_. You are not going on some 007 Heist into the depths of perdition!"

Alex crossed her arms defiantly. "Oh, yeah? You guys are gonna need all the help you can get. And considering the fact that Hunter numbers have been pretty down in the past few years, I think you'll be needing it."

Sam blinked and Jody reflected that it was probably the most words that the two boys had heard Alex string together. She'd been decidedly against talking during their last case together.

"Alex, please," Jody said, looking to Sam and Dean, of whom both seemed pretty content just watching and not taking any sides. She returned her full attention to Alex. "You _don't need to do this_."

Alex looked angry now. The remains of her baked slice had been fiddled with to crumbs. They littered the table in front of her, in front of her deep frown and clenched fists. "Well, so, I'm supposed to just allow _you_ do go down? You don't think that this hard for me as well?"

Jody made as if to interject, but Alex cut her off harshly.

"I'm the _only _person who'd gonna watch your back properly. You go down there without me," Alex looked hair at her adoptive mother. "How would I live with myself if I knew _I _could have saved you?"

"Alex, that's fine," Jody said, moving forward, achingly aware of Sam and Dean avoiding each other's gazes. "You're allowed to think like that. But I'm far from helpless. I've got Sam and Dean to watch my back, and..." Jody swallowed, looking at Alex tenderly. "What if something happened to _you_?"

"That's not _fair_," Alex said angrily, and Jody could see tears forming in her eyes. "Why are _you _allowed to use that argument, and not me? I gotta take care of you, Jody. You're all I got left." Her words were miserable when she repeated them. "You're all I got left."

Jody heard the door click and realised that the Winchester boys must have sensed that it was too private for them to listen in on.

Jody settled for just looking at her daughters face. Settled for just making her smile.

"I know it's selfish," Alex said. "But I can make my own choices. This is what I want."

"I can't be responsible for what might happen there," Jody told her.

"You're not," Alex promised. She gave a wry grin. "Anyway, aren't the Winchesters rubbing shoulders with the big birds in the canary cage? Anything happens and I'll be out in a jiffy."

Jody managed to smile. It petered down into a grimace, though, as she watched Alex determinedly look away.

"You're just a kid, Alex," Jody reminded her softly, voice barely raising above a whisper. "I know, I say it a lot. But it's true. You're _just a kid_. You have your whole life ahead of you. A future."

"What, because all _your _years are totally spent," Alex stated flatly.

Jody didn't budge. "You know what I mean."

Alex shook her head. "You don't let me go with you and I'll follow you anyway. I will follow you into Hell and there's not a _thing _you can do to stop me."

Jody felt her breath catch. She could tie Alex down and she'd just find some way to work through the bonds. She could lock her in and she'd just smash through the window or tunnel through the floor or bust through the plaster. Jody could send her back in a locked van and Alex would still manage a Houdini act.

"Alex," Jody's voice was low and intense. "You have to be _sure_. You have to be _certain_."

Alex gave a small smile. "Beyond all reasonable doubt, right?"

Jody raised an eyebrow and scoffed. "Right, just like that."

Jody thought about her strong willed daughter. She thought about Alex's strength and her determination and her Will. She thought about her despair and her loneliness and she thought about how tying someone down, forcing something on someone you loved didn't sound much like love at all.

But letting them follow you into the depths of the inferno didn't seem much like affection either.

Alex gave Jody a level stare. Her eyes were unblinking and clear. There was terror in them; she knew what was coming. There was a part of her that didn't care, and there was a part that cared an awful lot. It didn't matter what part won out in the end, because both agreed on something stronger.

She'd protect Jody in Lucifer's fires, Alex would take every step necessary.

"First sign of real danger, and I'm sending you out," Jody warned her. "By Cas or however, you will get out of there."

"But—"

"No buts, or you're not going at all," Jody's resolve was unwavering.

Alex wrinkled her nose. "_Everything _will be dangerous."

"Oh God, you think so?"

Alex tried to hold down her smile and gave Jody a playful push. "Don't be smart, Sheriff." She sobered, but the sides of her mouth were still firmly fixed into a smile. "Ok. Ok, I agree."

"Awesome," Jody said. "And if you ever pull a stunt like this again, I'm sending you to military school."

Alex laughed, but it shuffled out when Jody raised an 'I'm-being-completely-serious' eyebrow.

Alex nodded to the door. "Think we should let in Tweedledum and Tweedledee?"

"Yeah," Jody straightened and headed off to the door. "We got a lot of planning to get through."

* * *

"_Yeah, I would come, but me and Dee are in New Zealand chasing down a lead for the Monkey Invasion right now._"

"Wait, are you being serious?" Dean asked, frowning as he held his phone up to his ear. Then he paused. "How much is this call costing me?"

"_You don't even pay for your coffee. I've read the Supernatural books, Dean. I know about the Fraud and the felonies._"

"Right," Dean agreed. "But New Zealand? Seems a bit far away from where the critters were coming from in the first place."

"_Yeah,_" Charlie agreed. "_But we're pretty sure we've found a way to track openings to the Fairy Realms, and if we can get it—_"

"You can get the doorway whatever," Dean summarised. "Gotcha. Anyway, gonna have to go. Saving the world. You know how it is."

"_Sure do_," Charlie agreed. "_Ah, saving the world. Feels as good as it sounds._"

"Alright, see you later, Flash Gordon."

"_That's Wonder Woman to you, buster_."

"See ya, Charlie," Dean farewelled, amused.

He heard Charlie cackling on the other end of the line and a voice he recognised to be Dorothy. "_I know right?—oh, sorry Dean. Catch ya later, Homefry."_

Dean's finger pressed familiarly into the end call button and the screen flashed to announce that their conversation had ended. He tucked the phone into the pocket of his Jeans.

"Charlie, right?" He looked over to Sam, who was bent over a map of the woods they'd scoured, with Alex, who had a magnifying glass out and a bunch of markers.

Sam straightened, stretching, the side of his mouth upturning. "She and Dorothy still hunting that Oz thing?"

"Yeah, they think they've got a lead," Dean gestured vaguely around lead. "Well, sorta I guess."

"So what, that's how many now?" Alex asked, looking between the brothers.

"Well, Sarah said she'd send Cas down around now, and Garth is heading over from his and Bess's 'romantic Getaway' in Alaska."

"Those exist?" Alex asked, unconvinced.

"Yeah, I'm with you on that one," Dean muttered, grabbing a piece of the slice Alex had made and taking a bite.

"Well, apparently they do for werewolves," Sam answered. "He should be here soon. Tomorrow or late tonight."

"So that's, what?" Alex did a mental calculation. "Five hunters, one angel?"

"Stealth mission, black ops style," Dean agreed, taking another piece. His words were muffled with the food. "The'e a' _ama'ing _by 'e 'ay."

"Wanna repeat that?" Sam asked. "I don't think anyone heard anything over all the terrible manners and general disgustingness."

Dean swallowed his mouthful. "You flatter me, Sammy."

Jody came out from the bathroom where she'd be freshening herself up from her drive from Sioux Falls, shirt changed and hair brushed.

"So," she pulled her sleeves up and made her way over to the table. "What's the plan?"

* * *

"Hello Dean." Cas's voice was its usual gravel. "Hello Sam. Jody, Alex, it is good to meet you."

"Hey Cas," Jody smiled at him, her eyes crinkling up at the sides as she took him in. "The boys talk about you all the time."

"Oh," Cas said, looking quickly over at Sam and Dean, who had waved in welcome, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "That is...good. And you as well, they have spoken a lot of."

"I should hope so," Jody joked.

"How's Heaven?" Sam asked, taking a seat at the end of Dean's bed, while Cas took his and the other three rested against the walls. The small space seemed a lot smaller with the four people in it, but it was manageable at Sam's end. All he could feel was apprehension, and not from the enclosed spaces. He was ok with them—he had to be. But there were four people in that room who weren't him. And they were going to go through the same things as he was, and they were going to go to the depths of Hell at his and Dean's request.

"Heaven is..." Cas placed his hands on his knees as he struggled for the right word. "Good," he settled for. Then he smiled, that small smile he reserved for the things about humanity that amazed him and humbled him in equal measure. "Finally, _finally _good."

"That's good, Cas," Dean said. He moved forward, settling next to Sam across from Cas on his bed. "Sarah give us anything to work with?"

Cas brightened, nodding and pushing his hand into his trench coat. He brought out two parcels, one that turned out, to be at closer inspection, a tightly furled scroll.

"A map," Cas flourished. "That will create an image of wherever you are."

"And that will work in Hell?" Dean asked, curious, reaching over and opening it, eyes flicking over the page as he took in the map of their current surrounds. "Hell, Cas. This is amazing."

"I know," Cas said.

"Where'd you get it?" Sam asked, looking over with Dean. He could see the motel, all the streets around them spider webbing out and in tiny writing, the names of the shops on the street in the nearby town.

"Blathazar had it hidden with all the things he stole from Heaven," Cas said.

"Oh, shit, really?" Sam asked, intrigued. "Where?"

"Um, who's Blathazar?" Alex asked, sticking her hand up like she was in class.

"Balthazar was an angel loyal to me while Raphael was in charge of Heaven," Cas said, nonplussed. He turned back to Sam. "Under the wreckage of the titanic."

"And no one ever found it?"

"He was have taken measures, but no," Cas said.

"Wait, I thought he was stealing weapons," Dean frowned, confused. "I don't really know how a map could really be a _weapon_, right?"

"In the wrong hands, this could be incredibly damaging," Cas suggested. Then he shrugged. "I'm not sure. And we'll never get the chance to ask him."

"Right!" Sam said awkwardly, clearing his throat. "That's probably a good note to ask what the next thing is."

"It's a key that can unlock anything," Cas said, untangling it and showing it to them, dangling the black metal from his fingers.

Sam studied it, coming up with obsidian and really, _really _old. "_Any _door?"

Cas nodded. "Including the doors to Hell."

Sam and Dean shared a grin. Sam looked back at Cas. "Awesome."

* * *

"How many, sorry?"

"Uh, three in the end wasn't it?" Dean asked, glancing around to the gathered group to see if anyone had a clearer idea than him.

"Four," Garth corrected. "Mine, yours, Sam's, Cas's."

Sam shook his head and wrote it down. "Still can't believe you managed to land an Angel Blade, dude."

Garth shrugged nonchalantly. "What can I say? I'm amazing."

"It helps that a lot were lost during the fall and the following year," Cas mentioned. He looked uncomfortable, but not angry or upset at the mention of the fall. So either he'd repressed his angst like a true adopted Winchester, or was trying to see the best in a good situation. Bitterly, Sam knew which one was more likely.

"Ok, so, we start off—"

"Here," Sam pointed to the parking lot where they had left the impala the first time. It was close by to the motel and diner, and Sam let his finger drag over it discretely as he took his hand off.

"Ok," Jody nodded. "And then—"

"Hiking," Garth piped in. "My favourite."

They all looked at him and blinked, nearly in synch. Garth was unfazed as he always was, beaming at each of them in that unreachable happiness he'd discovered. On the day after Cas had arrived, Garth had come rearing in and now, on the fifth, he showed no signs of slowing down. He'd hounded them all with pictures of Bess and him in Alaska over food Cas had gone out to buy, and kept up a conversation decently into the night. That is until even Alex was begging for reprieve.

"I hope you're joking," Dean informed him.

"No way, Hiking and camping..." he smiled and looked lazily across the room, all of whom were frowning at him, including Cas. "It's the dream."

"Walking for a very long time does not sound enjoyable," Cas stated.

"Well, my friend, that's because you haven't tasted the simple joys of it," Garth sighed.

"Blisters, always being too hot or too cold, nature, bugs, wild animals..." Alex listed off her fingers. "Sounds like a blast."

"Ok, guys, back to the plan," Jody sighed. Without her there to remind them to turn back to the books, of which were lining the table in Sam and Dean's room. On the wall maps of the area were pinned, and then the map that showed the area of any given place was held safely in Cas's pocket, the very tip of the paper making its way out of the top. The key, as well, was in the angels safekeeping.

"Right," Sam said, spreading his hands across the table as he leant down, strands of hair catching themselves on his eyelashes. His shoulders hunched and he worked his jaw as he took in everything they'd put together. "So, I assume we want to kill all the Hell Hounds."

"Would make it easier," Dean commented, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed against his chest.

"Alright, done," Sam said, scribbling it down onto their list. "Now, next, would be..."

"The key," Cas said, tucking his hand into the pocket where it was held.

"Ok," Sam scribbled that down.

Dean frowned. "Isn't that one sort of a given?"

Sam glanced up and frowned. "Dean—seriously. Can you stop? You're totally messing with my system here."

Dean just smiled and Sam rolled his eyes.

"And then we enter Hell," Alex said simply, only slightly pale, which Sam took to mean either she was a lot braver than them, or a lot more foolish. She certainly looked a lot better than Garth, who looked close to vomiting, and Cas, who'd drawn up deathly pale.

"Sariel told me to remind you that we will not be able to stay long," Cas warned. "Anymore than three hours and we will have the whole of Hell on our tails."

"Time limit," Sam said, a sour taste forming at the back of his mouth. "Brilliant."

He scribbled that down as well, and was relieved when Dean left out the douchey comment.

"Then?" Jody asked, looking from Cas to Sam, from Sam to Dean and then to Garth. She hovered protectively by Alex, arm slightly in front, shoulder just higher. Sam recognised that pose, and after acknowledging that, he made sure he avoided Dean's eye. When no one answered, she hit again. "And _then_?"

"Then we follow the map," Sam said grimly. "And try and get out of there in three hours."

"Gonna be pretty touch and go," Dean said. Then he shrugged. "That's cool. I've worked with less."

Jody raised her eyebrows and looked at Dean for an extended second. Then she shook her head. "Well, we're all damned anyway."

* * *

The moon crept beneath the clouds like a scolded dog. The stars littered after it, the flowers thrown by the first of a wedding procession, beautiful women dressed to the nines making their way to an altar.

Dean didn't care about any of that. He'd long ago give up dreams of the stars and the universe. Sure, like every kid during the 80's,when sci fi was really going for its heyday, he'd wanted to be an astronaut. He'd tell stories to Sam, while they dozed off to sleep, and each word would get slower and slower as the night progressed. About he and Dean racing through the stars, saving alien civilisations and humanity. Doing everything in their powers to be heroes.

A few years ago and Dean would have said that at least they got the hero part down. Now, even he wasn't sure.

The flames of the holy oil crackled in front of him. Next to Dean, the glasses sat to cool, where they'd been run through the fire. Five pairs, one for each of them save Cas, who could see Hell Hounds with his grace-vision.

"You ok?" Sam asked, heading out to stand next to him. It was an ugly, cold night, and Dean was distracting himself by staring into nothingness. Into the pit of darkness extending from the objectless place in front of them.

Dean accepted Sam's offer of a beer and screwed the lid off with a practised turn of his wrist. These bottles weren't too bad, but the serration still burnt his palm. He ignored it, though, cooling it against the condensed glass and took down a drink of the stuff.

The flames were nearly dead now, but alive enough that a wind in equal parts friendly and savage could bring it back. But the oil was dying out and soon there would be no fuel, no matter what the wind did.

"That well, huh?" Sam asked tiredly, leaning against one of the poles keeping the roof over the doorways up. He took a healthy swig of his own beer. "I'm with you on that one."

"It's easy to forget with them, isn't it?" Dean asked, eyes still fixed to a place just beyond the impala, just beyond the car park. He chuckled and too another mouthful. "They're pretty chipper for a bunch of people a day away from hiking."

Dean sensed Sam's unconscious clenching dramatically relaxing. Sam hadn't wanted to talk about it. He could talk about a lot of things, he could talk about them, and their father and their mother, but there were people in that group who went beyond that.

Sam's voice was hesitant when he spoke, and Dean suddenly wished his brother wasn't such a talkative drunk. "You think...you reckon Jess is down there?"

Dean hesitated before answering. "I dunno. You asked Cas?"

"Yeah, course." Sam scoffed, and Dean could tell that he totally hadn't. He swallowed. "I hope not."

"Sam," Dean turned to his brother.

But Sam shook his head. "Don't. It's ok." He gave Dean a small smile. "I'm ok."

"What do you think we're gonna see down there?" Dean asked, taking another drink and feeling that irritating ache when he noticed how low the bottle was getting. He'd been trying so hard to kick all the alcohol, but whenever something bad happened or was coming, it always fought for purchase.

Which was, admittedly, always.

"Dunno," Sam answered morosely, following Dean's lead and downing another mouthful of beer. He smiled, casting Dean a side eye. "I'm pretty sure last time I was down there, this chick thought I was Jesus."

"Hm," Dean agreed, casting a critical eye over Sam's features. He didn't answer beyond that and just took another drink. His bottle was getting dangerously low, but he wouldn't ask for another one. It was already very late, and he needed to be as sober and as in control as possible for tomorrow.

"Madison's in purgatory," Sam said, looking up to the starless sky, embracing what Dean couldn't. He didn't look down as he kept talking. "I mean, she has to be, right?"

"Unless—" Dean cut himself off, clearing his throat and briefing that it would probably not help matters to bring that up.

"Unless she got killed there, yeah," Sam finished for him dully, finally looking back from the moon and the stars and the sky. The fingers around his bottle were growing tired, Dean could see his hand relax. He wondered whether the bottle would fall, and if it fell, what would happen to the glass.

Breeze shuddered against the grass and across the parking lot, glass from a smashed bottle scraped along the ground.

"I'm sort of...worried, Sam," Dean finally said, and he cleared his throat when he realised how raw his words were, like a naked blade lying, defenceless and corruptible in the snow. "Uh, about the...the mark of Cain."

"Why?" Sam asked, frowning. "You still have _weeks _left, don't you? That's heaps of time to find someone worthy."

Dean raised his eyebrow, but the hopeful glint in Sam's eye didn't die.

Dean sighed, and the air from his mouth turned white against the darkness of the sky. "I called Missouri. She agreed with me."

"About what?"

"That all this...violence and anger," Dean swallowed. "She said it was making it push through, making it easier for it to...come back."

"And when it comes back..." Sam sounded out, blinking away wetness from his eyes.

"I won't be me," Dean said simply. "I won't be me anymore, Sammy. And I'll be too far gone to care."

"How long did she say you got?" Sam's voice was emotionless, and Dean was glad. It was easier this way, to keep things practical and theoretical.

"A week at the least," Dean said carefully. "Two weeks, tops."

Sam took in a sharp breath of air. He nodded, looking down. The last of the holy fire blinked and then shuddered off, and the world was that much darker for it. "Ok. Then we don't sleep till we find someone. We don't stop. We don't...we _don't_..." _Give up._

"Ok," Dean said, like he didn't believe it, but that he wanted to. Badly. Desperately. He repeated it. "Ok."

Sam let the silence extend. He let it curl around them. Tomorrow they would be saving the souls of their friends and their family. They knew exactly what was coming, and they had no idea.

"So, Alex is going a bit stir crazy," Dean said light heartedly. He drained the last of his beer and let the bottle hang loosely at his fingertips.

Sam let out a huff of laughter. "Yeah, I don't blame her. It can get crowded with so many people."

"She asked me where the nearest place to get whoopie cushions was this morning," Dean advised, smirking.

"Wait, seriously?" Sam asked. "What did you say?"

Dean shrugged. "You'll just have to wait and see, Sammy."

Sam smiled, and craned his neck again to look up to that starless sky, that moonless expanse. The clouds rolled along on the back draft of the coming Winter, and despite how cold it was becoming, Dean didn't want to leave. If he stayed here, with Sam, they could talk and laugh and the next day might never come. The sun would never tough the horizon, and this night would continue forever.

But the sun would eventually rise, and they'd be all the more unprepared for it.

"C'mon," Dean nodded over to the door and Sam nodded, draining the rest of his beer before, letting out a shuddering breath that steamed white in front of him, he turned and followed Dean into the warmth.

* * *

"Ok, how we lookin', Alex?" Dean asked, pushing through another shrub, the surroundings they were walking through irritatingly familiar. He knew it was unlikely that they were anywhere near where they would have run to get away from the Hell Hounds the first time they'd come, but the trees leant in the same way and the leaves shaved off the right shade of green, the sinking sun lengthened the bark on the trees so that like crack crevices along the earth, black lines cast themselves about the brown wood.

Alex had been designated map reader, a sort of less shiny thing to distract her from the real shiny things. Jody had been adamant about Alex not being given one of the blades they had in their collection until they arrived at the Hell Gate. Dean guessed why; Alex was desperate to prove that she was a worthy part of the Justice League, but proving that might also end up causing premature death. At least in Hell, the lines were blurred, and resuscitation would be ignored by Death, at least of their friends. But here, in the world, where the slinking in of night held onto the cold frost Dean and Sam had felt as they'd stood side by side the night before, the worlds were separate.

_"Death and Life, as I'm sure you know, have a line drawn between them. Thick in the sand. Once you move one way, you can't go back. Sometimes people get caught on the line, they toe either side, but in the end, they always move on. The bowl of the dead grows, the fields of the living expand. Until both sides are toe to heel, staring in one direction."_

_"Not you. Not you and Sam, though. You stand on either side, but you face in. Face to face, eye to eye, close enough to touch each other."_

Dean felt a thrill run down his back, and he watched Sam carefully, noting how his brother held himself. That setting of feet that he had memorised, that odd sway every few metres that Dean had always just accepted.

"We're close," Cas answered for Alex, he was tense, looking around himself like he expected someone to jump out from behind him, the long shadows casting his features into even more doubt. His shoulders were slightly hunched, and Dean had thought it best not to mention that he'd been fiddling with his angel sword for the last hour.

"Yeah, thanks for that one," Alex frowned. She sighed and looked up to Dean. "Cas is right. We _are_ close."

"Three miles yet?" Sam asked, looking around. He was keenly invested into their surroundings, and Dean wondered if he was keeping a lookout for the campsite that he, Sarah and Dean had all stayed after Sam...after they'd come for the first time.

"Nearly," Alex said easily, tracing her finger along the paper. "Another half mile and we'll have reached the radius."

"Ok," Sam nodded.

"Right, so when we hit the mark, we probably won't have much trouble till we get really close," Dean instructed. "Cas, you lead Jody and Garth from the left, and me and Sam will come around from the right." He looked directly at Alex. "Alex, you stay back until we give the signal."

"Sounds fool proof," Alex muttered., shoving her foot into the dirt but not voicing her complaints.

"We got it," Jody nodded. He looked around. The surroundings hadn't changed as they walked, but at the time of day that it had come down to, colours were shifting rapidly. It'd taken them a day to hike for the first time, with no way of knowing exactly where the Hell Gate was, and a few hours less with Sarah, who could be relied upon for her expertise and gentle modifying of the world so that they'd always have a path to follow.

Cas knew the woods as well as could be expected, and all of them were fighting fit and strong enough to tackle the trek, but more people inevitably led to more stops. And time dragged on.

They headed off again, this time Sam next to Cas in the lead. Alex stood a little beside them, tracking their journey with a slide of her finger and Garth, Dean and Jody brought up the rear.

"We're gonna be ok, you know," Jody said to Dean, turning to him as she stepped over a log, smiling. "We spent six days planning this. It's all going to be fine."

Dean tensed his neck and looked dead ahead. At Sam, who was laughing at something Alex had said, and at Cas, who was looking across at Sam laughing with a smile. He couldn't lose them, either of them. And then Garth, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet and had thus given away how nervous he was, and then Jody, all her smiles and her memories. "How can you be sure about that?"

Dean finally looked over, just as she looked away. She was staring dejectedly after Alex, who had taken position between Sam and Cas and was pointing to something on her map. "Because I have to."

"Because it's just how it's gonna be," Garth said, smiling at Dean, shrugging. "Everything _has _to work out, dude. Because it's what we deserve."

Dean knew Garth was trying to comfort him, but he wished he didn't. The world rarely gave what it's inhabitants deserved. The world rarely gave at all. Not without taking. It'd wrench away some kings, and return to you with an Ace and a smile. And that was that.

Every good thing demanded payment. And Dean was terrified to see what the payment would be this time.

* * *

Jody announced her reappearance with a storm of waving bushes. She stumbled over a log on the ground but caught herself and squatted down next to Sam as they scoped out at the three mile radius.

"Alex ok?" Dean asked, glancing back to where he knew the sullen teen was sitting. Jody had insisted it best that they don't give her an angel blade, because Alex would just see that as an invitation to come running after them. Instead they'd surrounded her with a layer of salt and a layer of goofer dust and waved goodbye.

Jody sighed. "She's fine. Just cranky." Then she smirked, looking over at the group. "Said if we were bringing Garth, then we should be bringing her."

"Hey!" Garth exclaimed. "I have a _very specific skill set_."

"What's that?" Dean asked. "Getting drunk off one bottle of beer?"

"Wait, seriously?" Jody asked, raising her eyebrows.

Next to him, Cas shifted. Dean knew his friend was nervous, he kept tapping the pocket that held the key and fiddled with the sleeve that hid the angel blade. Cas could more than take care of himself, and if he were nervous, then Dean didn't have a chance. He was glad Cas _had _kept it to himself, because inspiring bravery in people was difficult when the strongest thing in the universe started getting in touch with its mortality.

"You good?" Dean asked anyway, keeping his voice low.

"Fine. I just feel..." as trailed off, still looking dead towards the Hell Gate. "Anxious."

Dean paused. "Great."

"Ok, are we ready?" Sam asked, standing up and moving off to the right and standing next to Dean. "We can't see any Hounds yet, but they're probably closer to the mouth anyway. Remember the plan?"

"We got it, man," Garth assured them.

Cas drew up as well, and Jody and Garth followed suit, standing next to each other. "We will see each other soon."

"Course," Dean grinned. "We always do."

* * *

Boot crunched recklessly on twig and leaf as the two brothers made their way, creating a beeline for the entrance to Hell. Neither showed how they felt about being so obviously close to the place where Sam had almost died, but there was a shadow that cast across their faces and a tautness to the skin across their cheeks. Like the pain of remembering was physically altering them.

"You ready?" Sam asked, and by the way he spoke and how he stood, Dean knew that Sam was seriously nervous. He was breathless, and his eyes were nearly wide with fright.

"As I'll ever be," Dean answered shortly.

"Cas knows what to do?" Sam asked, pulling Ruby's knife out of his back pocket.

"Quit worrying, he's got it," Dean said, and his any urgency was wiped out by a wry grin and his patented lazy grin.

Sam surely knew that Dean was putting up a front. He had to know, because if last night had taught Dean anything, it was that he was readable. And no one was better at reading him than his little brother. But Sam showed off _his _patented uncomfortable little grin, so whatever he was thinking, he _wanted _to be thinking something different.

"Got your glasses, Clark?" Sam asked, pulling his own out of the pocket of his jacket. He pushed them onto his face and blinked, making a face. "Ugh. You couldn't have gotten some for me that _weren't _for the blindest person on the planet?"

"Sorry about that," Dean said, smiling in a very non-apologetic way. He copied Sam, pulling his glasses out and putting them on. His eyesight blurred but it wasn't to the disorientation that Sam was struggling with.

Sam blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes under his glasses with his fingers, the frames rising up against his hand and then sighed, blinking again.

"You right?" Dean asked, amused.

"Fine," Sam sighed. "I'll be fine."

Dean glanced around them. Their steady pace had put them a mile out before they'd split up, and he knew the hell hounds were disinclined to move away so early. He couldn't see anything, no paw or red flashing eyes, no snarling teeth or blue flames licking along the fur like it was made of fire.

"Should we shoot or something?" Sam suggested. "Let them know where to find us?"

"They know we're coming," Dean shook his head. "If they'd wanted to attack us here, they would have come."

"They're not going to be drawn out, are they?" Sam asked grimly.

Dean sighed and nodded. "Guess we gotta do it the hard way."

"Fantastic."

* * *

Dean saw the Hell Hound first, but Sam stumbled onto it quickly after him. Dean's hand came out, palm flat to the ground, signalling that the Hound was near, and with a squint of his eyes through his useless glasses, Sam saw it as well. It was doing its best to keep quiet, and Dean was using its self assuredness against it. Any obvious movements and the Hound would leap out an attack them and whatever advantage the two would have had would be lost.

Sam walked along idly, feeling every clench of his muscles, ever tingle in his finger and flutter of his eyelid. Even the tiniest movement felt consequential. Even the smallest spark could ignite the dog into attacking. And Sam was _certain _that it was written, in black and white, all over his face.

He tripped over the uneven ground, disorientated for a moment by the crapiness of the glasses, taking a moment to take care of himself.

"You good, dude?" Dean asked, voice nonchalant, but now that his face was away from the Hound, his eyes were wide with meaning. _Don't give us away._

"Yeah, just tripped," Sam said quickly, hoping to convey that he hadn't honestly fallen because of the dog just a few metres away. The Hound from the depths of Hell that had had a brother who'd dug it's claws into Sam's chest and _ripped—_

"Let's keep going," Sam said, and it must have been too hurriedly, because the Hell Hound shifted. Going from Dean's side of the trail to Sam's. Both tried their best to watch it without making it obvious that they could see it.

"Shit—weather we're having, isn't it?" Dean managed, glancing up at the gathering grey between the leaves. They started walking again, and Sam nearly cursed when he saw Dean trying to steer himself into Sam's position. He wouldn't be able to, though. There was no way he could do it without giving up that they knew what the Hell Hound was doing.

Sam shrugged and played along. "I don't know, we've had worse."

"Man, I hate hiking," Dean said sourly, knocking a rock from the ground with his foot and kicked it ahead of them, where it fell between two roots, right by the paws of the Hellish Dog. They were close, but slowing down the pace just meant delaying the inevitable.

Five metres away, and Sam's heart was hammering hard at his ribs. He could feel sweat on his palms, and his breathing hitch. What the hell was wrong with him? He'd been all for taking the Hell Hounds the night before. And when they were scouting the place out, hadn't it been _Dean _who convinced him to leave, to come back with more people?

Then why was there this _ringing _in his head? Where was that quiet confidence he'd worked so hard to capture?

Two metres and his grip on the handle of the knife Ruby had given to him and been killed by increased tenfold. He didn't understand why the Hound didn't see his shaking hands or paled skin, his extra breaths or hear his quickened heartbeat. Even he could hear it, a loud thumping over the quiet of the forest.

One metre and Sam felt himself going faint. They were so close now, and the claws, laced as they were in blue flame, were more visible than ever. Sam had to avert his gaze.

50 centimetres. One more step and Dean would give the sign...

"Now!" Dean ordered, and with a snap Sam span the knife in his hand and then lashed out with it, catching the dog underneath the chin. It wailed, pitifully, a long drawn out whine as Sam's knife didn't quite make the mark. It tried to force its way out, legs crouching and preparing to jump, before Dean clamped down onto it, forcing the dog onto its stomach. Sam tried again, and this time, with a surgeons precision, he got it right. The drawn out whine was caught suddenly short, and black blood sprayed out from the dismembered artery.

Sam drew away and meekly helped Dean up, not meeting his brother's questioning look as they watched the hound flicker in front of them and then disappear completely. All that remained was a pile of black blood, thick and oozing, reeking of sulfur.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean asked, and Sam looked up when Dean's voice was anything but angry. "Dude, if you're gonna choke, you gotta go back."

"What?" Sam demanded. "No! You have to be kidding me. I'm staying."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Seriously, Sam. You hesitate and everyone could die."

"I _know _what's at stake, Dean," Sam snapped. "I get it."

"You get it?" Dean asked, moving forward, looking up into Sam's eyes with a burning intensity. "You get that these are our friends souls we're talking about? You get that these are our _parents _souls? You get that this is _Mom's _soul?"

Sam looked away at his last question, because he'd never thought of it like that. The whole crusade, killing the Yellow Eyed Demon, hunting down every evil thing that crossed their path, their whole lives being this one long, never ending road trip, came down to their mom. And how she had died over Sam's nursery just over 31 years ago. And now they were finally sending her to a rest.

"I got this," Sam said determinedly. He met Dean's eyes fiercely. "I _promise_."

"Good," Dean said, still nonchalant, but there was something in the eyes behind his glasses, something in the grip around his angel blade. "Because they're coming."

Like he was talking about going to bed, like he was talking about going to breakfast at the diner. His eyes met Sam's in a calm clarity, and Sam nodded back. The wind pushed the hair out of their faces as they turned to look to where they were going, and they prayed that this time, it wouldn't change direction.

* * *

Dean ducked as Sam threw his knife into the throat of the Hound bounding up to them. It cut in but didn't make a purchase, and the Hell Hound shook it off. Sam swore and bounded around to the knife, just as, with a snarl, Dean thrust his blade up and through the Hounds throat.

As it fell and died, Sam stood next to Dean, watching it fizzle into nothing, clutching the dropped knife.

The hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood up as the howls of the Hell Hounds sounded out across the forest, the dying light catching the howl on the air, like the wind flowed harsher and cooler with the beckon of the Hounds of Hell.

"Shit," Dean murmured.

"Think they've spotted us yet?" Sam asked grimly, looking around, blinking more often than he usually did to try and adjust his eyes to the glasses.

"I think they're pissed as hell," Dean replied, eyes searching through the undergrowth in front of them for a glimpse of that blue fire.

"C'mon," Sam nodded his head. "We're nearly there. We're nearly at the Hell Gate."

They followed through the trees, Sam carefully tracing after Dean's step, the low light doing nothing for his poor sight.

The merged through a group of trees before they saw it, the Gate, through another 50 metres or so of tree land, and then a circle of free area, of grass and churned up ground.

"I wonder if our packs are still here," Sam muttered, looking across to Dean.

Dean's chest thrummed with a laugh and despite the low visibility, he looked over to where he remembered the log where the bags were hidden to be. "Imagine that."

"Ok, ready?" Sam asked, peering through the trees.

Dean made a disgruntled sound. "Ugh. I hate this plan."

Sam didn't look at him as he pushed himself on. "Everyone hates this plan."

Dean rolled his eyes and followed after him, standing a few steps in front of Sam, just enough to lead him the way. The sun was truly on its way to setting now and the shadows were at their longest and deepest.

The two brothers emerged from the bushes without regard. They walked slowly up to where the hounds were, side by side over the even ground. There were four, so management must have wanted to up the ante after Sam and Dean's first half-attempt.

The Hell Gate was so simple, if it wasn't for the Hounds, they'd assume it was there by accident, left over from an old fashioned hideaway, just a metal door with nothing on the other side.

Sam saw it before Dean did, so his arm lashed out and caught Dean in the middle of the chest just as the Hell Hound closest to them bared it's teeth and prepared it's haunches.

But neither moved.

They let one forward first, and the brothers took care of it efficiently. It was strong, but they'd had practise and a determination like they'd never had before. These were their friends they were fighting for, these weren't just the faceless masses of the thousands of humans, they were real. Reals as their thudding hearts, real as the adrenalin searing their veins.

As it leapt up, Sam pushed out of the way and with a grunt, baring his teeth, Dean slashed his dirtied blade through the Hell Hounds head. Neither watched as it fell to the ground between them, sparking before disappearing into nothingness.

When all three remaining Hell Hounds charged with reckless abandon, the brothers charged forward.

As it did, they didn't see Cas, Jody and Garth sneak towards the door, Cas holding his hand in a fist around a tiny object, of which Dean assumed was the key. Jody was guarding his back, one of the Angel blades in her hand, with the other in Garth's. Cas's peeked out of the bottom of his sleeve as he glanced back, and Dean met his eyes for a moment, before reality slammed back, and both turned to what they were doing.

One forced it's way at Sam, and he would have fallen if Dean hadn't caught his arm, forcing him to his feet, swinging his blade around and knocking it into the Hounds head, shouting their way through the line.

From behind them they huddled next to Jody and Garth, where they brandished their weapons and the Hounds snarled.

"They won't _attack_, right?" Jody asked weakly, staring at the one nearest to her. Dean could tell that she knew even armed, _one _of the Hounds could take them, take _all _of them.

Well, Dean smirked at the nearest one. On a bad day.

And Hell yawned up behind them, and Cas was working the key into the lock.

And the Hounds had one objective, and that was to guard Hell. Guard it despite and to death.

So without a second passing between Jody asking, the Hounds attacked, and the four took them on.

Sam kicked out at a hound, but Dean focused on the one Garth was tangling with. Garth brandished it back with a savage cut of his blade, but it made no purchase, and all he succeeded in doing was flattening the ears of the Hell Hound and an angry growl. Dean jerked forward, but it was too late, the Hound knocked Garth to the ground, and with the fall, his glasses dropped off, crunching under his head.

With a cry, Dean forced the Hell Hound off Garth's body and stuck the blade into its throat, standing and not turning back to watch as it disappeared.

Dean turned to look at Sam, who was handling his Hound with the promised care. All the shaking Dean had seen was gone, locked away as Sam took down the glorified pit bull, finally overcoming it and sticking Ruby's knife through its jaw and up through its head.

Garth clambered up, and all three looked to where Jody was.

Everyone turned _very _still.

She edged around it, caught in an impasse, her glasses still on, but dangling precariously at the tip of her nose. Any sudden movement and they would fall.

"Crap," Sam whispered, watching her, moving slowly away from the place he'd killed the Hell Hound towards Jody.

A warning growl from the Hell Hound cut him off.

Jody glanced over and the movement sent the glasses further down her nose.

"Jo—" Garth tried, but the warning growl echoed again. He gritted his teeth and went for it. "Jody, can you see?"

Jody shook her head slowly. "Not really."

And the Hound pounced.

Like Garth, her glasses flew off in her panic, flinging off into the dirt, but unlike Garth, none of them were near enough to help her. And when her blade fell, Dean started to move, as fast as he could, feet digging into the ground. As Sam desperately prepared to throw his knife, just as Dean started to really start running, a dark dash sprinted across from the now utterly dark cover of foliage and tackled the hound off Jody with a might _push_.

The two fell across the ground, and a hand reached out and caught the angel blade. With a grunt, it slashed up and caught the Hell Hound between the jugular and the rest of the muscle and veins of its neck, effectively cutting its barks and growls off.

Everyone watched, including Cas, who'd turned away from opening the door to try help Jody, as Alex stood. She pulled the knife out of the Hound with a grunt and stood as it disappeared. She held the angel blade meekly, glancing over at Jody, who was slowly pulling herself to her feet.

She stared at her. "_Alex_?"

Alex winced. "Hi?"

"What the _Hell_?" Jody demanded, walking forward a little unsteadily on her feet. "I told you to _wait_."

Alex squared her hips and folded her arms impetuously, hand still tight around the angel blade. "If I'd stayed, you would have been _dead_."

"_You _could have died!" Jody reminded her, nearly yelling, her voice tight, angry.

"Yeah, well, I _didn't_."

Jody let out a frustrated noise at the back of her throat. "Why won't you _listen _to me?"

"Because you _never _listen to me!" Alex shouted back, her voice echoing over the forest, where night had fallen, where the world had gone dark and mysterious. "I can _handle _this!"

"And _this _is why I didn't want you to come!" Jody snarled back. "I told you to wait, I told you to obey _every order I gave you_."

"I I had, you'd _be dead_!"

"How long were you following us?" Jody demanded.

Alex turned suddenly awkward, finally breaking eye contact with her furious adoptive mother. "I, uh...a while."

Jody let out a lungful of air steadily and looking at the ground gathering herself. Finally, she looked up, and Alex caught her eye. "Thank you. For saving me."

Alex fidgeted. "It's ok."

"Um. I...I've managed to open it," Cas cleared his throat awkwardly, and all of them turned to look at him. The angel held up the key and felt at the door, holding his hand just over the surface. "It's ready to be opened."

"How'd you figure that one our?" Dean asked, frowning at it. He couldn't see a key hole anywhere. Not even a niche for Cas to have snuck the thing in.

"Well, I manipulated my grace—"

It sounded like a long rant, so Dean cut him off. "Alright, thanks buddy." He looked out at everyone. From Garth, who was pale and bleeding across his chest, to Jody, who had a scratch along her shoulder and a three clawed rip in her shirt. To Alex, still holding Jody's angel blade and staring defiantly at the doorway, and then to Sam, who was watching him in turn, eyes quiet and probing.

_This is it. This is it._

"Ok," Dean nodded to everyone. "Are we ready?"

"As we'll ever be," Garth muttered, eyes fearful as he beheld the door.

Dean turned to Cas, and with a nod, Cas turned back to the door. His hand hit the surface, and with a heave, the door swung open.

* * *

When Sam opened his eyes, he wished he hadn't.

Hell was worse than he remembered, and where they were seemed to be one of the cleaner ends of town.

It felt like they were in the bottom of a pit, high walls around them and nothingness ahead. Up above there was no ceiling, just an endless call of grey and green, with lines crisscrossing it that, after a second, Sam recognised as linked chains.

"Ok, Cas," Dean's voice wobbled in the middle but held firm. "The map."

Cas spread it out, the least perturbed of the group.

Garth had grown deadly quiet, his already pale pallor worsening by the second. He drew close to behind Dean and shifted inside the bubble of human warmth. Jody and Alex were side by side, arms brushing and looking around. Alex's tight grip on her blade was the only thing that really gave her away. Her face was a perfect mask of nonchalance, and Sam hoped she'd be able to keep that bravery up.

"We're here," Cas pointed to the centremost point, a thick black X. He frowned as he looked down at the map, of which was hard to read, faded lines crisscrossing hard lines, with black fading from soft to harsh randomly throughout.

"And this map is impossible to read," Dean stated, crouching down next to the angel.

Cas grimaced and spread his palm, a blue light emanating from the centre, spilling across it like a flash light. He reached down and tapped it, and like a camera coming into focus, lines faded and others hardened, and a ready to read map was before them.

"Whoa," Sam bent down, squinting at it, before finally pulling his glasses off. Garth and Jody already had them stored in their clothes. "How'd you know to do that?"

"Hell, much like Heaven, is constantly changing and building on itself, crashing down and reforming," Cas explained. "This is how Hell looked when I touched it a few moments ago, and this," he touched it again, and the lines ever-so-slightly adjusted themselves. "Is how it looks now."

"So where do we want to go?" Jody, kneeling, asked, with Alex following her lead, bending over Jody's shoulder. "Where is it most likely to be?"

Cas's hand lit up, and he held it over a group of tightly interlocking lines. "Here looks like a good place to start."

"It also looks busy," Sam said grimly.

"What'll happen if we meet a demon down here?" Garth asked, breaking his silence.

"They'll be unstoppable," Cas said basically, looking up at the werewolf. "When I came down to save Dean, I could only hold them at bay as I pulled him out of hell."

"Well, good thing you're here now," Jody said, flashing him a tight smile.

Cas smiled unsurely back.

"Ok, so we head there," Dean summarised, standing up, glancing at the map and then at the way they'd have to move. He glanced back down to the others, who were following his lead as Cas picked the map up again, the touch if his fingers moving the maps position again.

"We don't have much time," Alex stated, watching as the lines moved. "If we don't go soon, the way will be lost."

"She's right," Cas said, his blue eyes even more piercing and brilliant in the low light. Sam looked across at the angel, and he nodded once. "We have to start moving."

And so they did.

Alex was handed the map, standing next to Cas at the front of the line, who reached over idly every now and again to turn the map to a more constant image of their surroundings. Alex was chattering nervously to him, and he was responding in his low, thunderous voice.

Sam stood beside Dean, and they moved on.

* * *

Sam was alone when his breaths came out in puffs of steam, moving through the air in a white fog, catching the few glimpses of low light before disappearing into nothingness.

It was _freezing_, the chill stole through his arms and slowed his blood, his heart beat came softer and slower, and every breath was a thundering in his ears. He looked around, and felt how slow his movements had become when he realised he was alone.

Hell was still the same. A never ending black depth in front and a never ending black behind. Above the clinking of chains was finally coupled with the distant far off screams of pain. But looking up, Sam could see nothing but the endless grey green. No bodies, no one ready for saving.

"You came _back _to me, Sam," his voice slunk through the air like the slow winding tail of a snake. Like the grin of a fox and the wing of a crow. "You came _back_."

"Lu—_Lucifer_?" Sam asked, his breath still foggy, his eyes casting about the scene in front of him.

"Well..." Lucifer came into view, not in the form of Nick, as he had when Sam was hallucinating, but as Sam himself. In a white suit, with a rose perched in his breast pocket. He was Sam when he was younger, and his face was fuller, hair shorter. But that was Lucifer wearing his face, that was Lucifer moving his arm. "That is, you _could _come back if you'd left...but you _didn't _leave, did you, Sammy?"

"..._no_," Sam looked around. He was in Hell, and maybe it had triggered it, maybe it had triggered him coming back around, out of the depths of the dream that had been his life. And this, this had been the cruellest torture of them all. Letting him believe that there'd been hope, letting him see that there was some way _out_, some way to finally meet that end. And then to have it all torn down, all taken away.

Sam couldn't take it, he couldn't, he felt his breathing hitch, and his eyes roll restlessly in his head.

Lucifer looked up at him, a kind, mocking smile on his face. "Oh...you didn't _actually _think you got out?" He let out a laugh. "Oh, _God_, Sammy. I can't imagine how you must feel now."

"Don—please. _Please_ no, please..._don't_." Sam begged, voice barely a whisper with the cold, his throat seizing against the iciness of the landscape. "_Please_."

"180 years and I never got you to beg once," Lucifer smiled, spreading his fingers in front of him like he was checking his nails. He looked over to Sam coldly. "Who knew it could be so easy?"

Sam cried out in pain when Lucifer spread his fingers out towards Sam, and he fell to the ground. He felt his leg snap, and the scream that followed tore at his throat. Tore into the depths of his being.

"That's right, Sam," Lucifer smiled silkily, Sam watching his own lips being pressed into a cold, calculating smile. "Welcome home."

Sam closed his eyes, against the pain, against the suffering, and he shuddered in on himself against the cold, hands and arms tucked against his chest, spasming with pain, until his body didn't shake anymore. Until he could feel himself fading away again, until—

"Sam! Hey! Sammy! _Sam_!"

Sam jerked to awareness, staring into Dean's eyes. His brother was holding him down, hands braced against his arms, watching his brother fearfully.

"Dean?" Sam managed weakly, staring passed him to the other worried faces of the group, from Cas who's hands were white with worry around the map, to Alex who was clutching at Jody fearfully, to Garth, eyes wide, damp, stoic and _terrified. _Jody, with her mouth clenched worriedly together, hand holding Alex back, eyebrows furrowed with worry.

"Yeah buddy," Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "You're ok. You're fine."

"I don't—"

"Hey, it's ok," Dean soothed. "Just stay down for a bit, alright?"

Sam nodded, resting his head back against the floor. He cleared his throat. "What...what happened?"

Dean looked across at the others. "You just...fell, man. And then you went super cold and started to shiver, and then you started to _scream..._" Dean winced at the look on Sam's face as he cut himself off. "Sorry."

"No, I should be the one apologising," Sam insisted, looking away from all of them and up to the screamless chains. "I—"

Dean's head ripped across his neck in a sickening crack, neck severing with the severity of the blow. Sam heard nothing but ringing in his ears, looking up and seeing Alex scream as Jody was wrenched apart, spraying her adoptive daughter in a film of blood. Cas's eyes were wide as his grace exploded from him, the white light explosion covering the sight of Garth screaming as blood gushed out of his mouth and Alex crying out as her chest was ripped open.

Sam closed his eyes, but not before he saw Lucifer there, standing behind the destruction.

His voice floated through the din, right into Sam's ear. "Too easy."

"This isn't...this isn't real, this _isn't real_, it's _not_—"

"Hey, Sam, are you ok?"

Sam blinked and looked around, seeing that he'd fallen to the back of the group. Everyone was turned to him curiously, all alive and accounted for.

Garth, exchanging a look with Dean, asked the question again.

Sam blinked, again, and stunned himself into acknowledging. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"You sure?" Dean asked, uncertain.

"Yeah," Sam assured him. He forced a smile and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Because this tasted real, because of the way Dean nodded (_alive, alive, alive_) when Sam said he was fine, and because of the way _all of them were alive._

Maybe it didn't matter what plane of reality was the real one. Because Sam would hold onto this one, with everything he had.

* * *

When the ghost of what Dean had just seen showed itself across his face, Sam called for a break.

Dean had looked at him oddly, like he suspected that Sam knew, but he didn't say anything. Not until they were all sitting on the rocky ground, Alex and Jody crouched low next to each other, giggling at something Garth was saying. Cas hung close by them, casting a side eye when he saw Sam take Dean off, sensing they needed some time alone.

"Hey, are you ok?" Sam asked, searching into Dean's evasive eyes.

"Fine," Dean assured him. "Look, can we just—"

"I saw Lucifer," Sam said quickly. "Just before. He killed you. All of you."

Dean gazed up at his brother. "Shit, Sam. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't want to worry you," Sam replied easily. The raw wound that had been the flashback was nearly healed, and though he treaded bravely around it, it was a slow process. "But Dean, what did _you_ see?"

"Alistair," Dean finally answered, looking away again. "He...he told me to start..." Dean let the rest be filled up by what Sam already knew.

Sam let out a lungful of air. "You think our memories of Hell are coming back?"

"I think being in Hell certainly isn't helping things," Dean said, glancing over at the group, who were slowly standing, pulling themselves together.

"Keep going?" Sam suggested.

Dean nodded, reaching over and holding Sam's arm, warmth seeking warmth, brother seeking brother, soul seeking soul.

He smiled, just barely, but it was there. And in a convoluted way, it was _true_.

"Let's kick this in the ass, yeah?" Dean said, and grinned.

Sam smiled back, and Dean reached over and tapped Sam's cheek, before turning back and leading the way beside Alex and Cas.

* * *

As they got closer and closer, Cas seemed more and more agitated.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, frowning as Cas jerked his head to the side.

Cas grimaced. "It's the demons. They're getting closer."

"Closer?" someone asked from the shadows. The hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood up as he turned to the sound, and Cas spread his hand out, spreading his fingers so that, like a flashlight, it expelled air.

Dean felt the air at the back of his throat melt as he recognised the voice, he recognised _her._

But it was Cas who spoke. "_Meg_?"

The she-demon smile, baring her teeth. In the depths of Hell, she still had the body of the last vessel she'd had, the starlet from Hollywood. "Howdy, Clarence. You look familiar, come here often?"

"Wait, seriously, Meg?" Sam demanded, staring at her. "You were dead! We saw you _die_!"

"You're welcome, by the way," Meg arched an eyebrow at him. She smiled across at Garth, Jody and Alex. "Look at these new faces. Pleased to meet you, new characters."

"Meg?" Dean watched as Jody turned to Sam. "As in the demon Meg? As in demon who _possessed _you Meg?"

"I'm famous!" Meg gushed.

Sam ignored her, nodding at Jody. "Yeah. We saw her—you—_die_. Crowley killed you!"

Her good humour dropped at the sound of the King of Hell's name. "I prefer 'He Who Will Not be Named'."

"You prefer to call Crowley Voldermort?"

"Not the time, Garth," Dean said warningly. He looked across to Cas, who was watching his once maybe-demon-friend beam up at them like she'd never been gone.

"How are you alive?" Cas asked her, eyes searching her body, her clothes, her brown bushy hair.

Meg smiled. "Death's been pretty messed up this past year. You ever hear of Cerberus?"

"The hound that guards hell in Greek Mythology?" Alex asked, who seemed to be the least phased of the group, gazing at the demon, nearly bored.

"The underworld, but yeah," Meg inclined her head. "Right, so, what d'you think would happen, if Cerberus got distracted? Say some dipshit in the attic decided to cast all the reapers out of heaven. Say then, that Cerberus was forced to pick up the slack. What do you think would be the next adventure for all the little souls he was guarding?" Meg smirked. "Especially if those souls had..._questionable _morals."

"They'd come back," Dean said evenly. He was torn at seeing her, she'd been good to them in the last few years of her life, overcoming the animosity from having killed their friends and possessing Sam. He didn't have to wish her dead again, but he didn't have to be happy to see her.

Meg spread her arms and looked down at herself. "And here I am. Demons, you know, sorta have souls. I mean, we're ruined, messed up souls damned for all eternity, but souls we have. And there's a special place in the back end of things where we're stored until judgement day. And so I wriggled out, beat the crowd, and here I am."

"You came back to life," Sam stated.

Meg cast him a surly look. "What? Like you and the other two boy toys have monopoly on resurrection." Cas frowned at 'boy toy', but Dean shrugged it off. He tilted his head at Meg, but she ignored him. "Now! Imagine my surprise when I see not only fully fledged souls in Hell, but the fully fledged souls of Sam and Dean Winchester, a werewolf, a child and a middle aged lady sheriff."

Jody raised her eyebrows, but didn't say anything, letting her disapproval show on the set of her lips.

"We're here to rescue souls, Meg," Cas told her evenly.

"Damned souls?" Meg asked, raising her eyebrows disbelievingly. "What? Do you all have a death wish?"

"Not damned souls," Dean said forcefully. "Souls of Hunters that have been gathered for years. They're in here somewhere. We need to get them back."

Meg's eyes flicked to Dean's arm, and he was stunningly aware for a moment, that he had a mark on his arm that shouldn't be there. A mark that she'd recognise.

She smiled though, and let her eyes drift across the company. "So you finally figured it out, huh? Assembled your own Avengers initiative and now you came down here tryna free the souls we were forbidden from ever knowing about."

"But you did," Sam asked her slowly, looking wounded. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Well, first, Demon," Meg pointed to her head, as if it were obvious. "And second, I was sort of forbidden from talking about it." She crossed her arms to her chest. "And it's not like it _came up _in conversation."

Dean swallowed his irritation and turned to Meg. "Do you know where it is?"

"Yeah. Lucky thing I found you first, huh?" Meg's smile grew cat like. "Not all the others are as cuddly as me."

"Yeah, you're plenty cuddly," Jody commented.

"Thanks," Meg replied without missing a beat. She nodded her head off to the side. "Now, Crowley's an idiot, but he wouldn't put that sort of thing where everyone gathers to...oh I dunno, gamble, have sex, play rock and roll." Meg grinned but nobody shared her enthusiasm. She rolled her eyes and continued on with her story. "Anyway, it's off in the shadows. And I know where it is."

She walked off at that, and Cas followed her first, soon followed by Sam and Alex, and then Garth, who was smiling absently, relieved that they had a guide.

Jody was watching her without expression, and Dean waited for her to start walking before he went off as well.

"You trust her?" Jody asked, watching her leave.

"Honestly?" Dean asked. "No. Not evenly slightly. But we need her."

Jody pursed her lips and still didn't move. "How do we know Crowley didn't just bring her back?"

Dean smirked at that though, because if there was something Meg was guilty of, it wasn't that. "Crowley hates her just as much as she hates him. Don't worry."

"Ok," Jody nodded, starting to walk, so that Dean caught up with her. "I just hope we aren't making a mistake."

_She's a demon_.

Dean nodded and followed after her. "Don't worry. I hear you."

* * *

"Here we are," Meg gestured towards a doorway, between two massive pillars of rock.

"What, we just walk in?" Dean asked, and Sam looked over to him. He was still watching Meg with an air of disgust, but the anger had ebbed a little when she delivered on her promise.

"What? Seriously, when has it been that easy?" Meg asked, turning on them, shaking her head. "No. Entrance calls for a sacrifice."

"Like...a life?" Alex asked, who'd picked up a casual conversation with Meg as they'd walked.

"Sure," Meg shrugged. She cast her eyes over to Cas. "Or the entirety of an angels grace."

"Why didn't you tell us this _before_?" Sam demanded, heating up, looking to Dean for help.

"Meg, seriously?"

She sighed. "It's not hard to get." She pointed to her head again. "Demon. Inherently evil. Lies a lot."

"Yeah, thanks for perpetuating the stereotype," Dean said grimly.

Meg shrugged. "Well, someone's going to have to make a sacrifice. And it's not going to be me."

"I'll do it," Cas said immediately.

"Whoa, slow down there," Garth said, looking around the group. "How are we supposed to get out without Cas?"

"Well, you'll have me," Meg shrugged, smiling a very non trustworthy smirk.

"Yeah, thanks," Jody deadpanned. "No, Cas. You can't. Garth is right. We need you."

Dean suddenly jerked his head up, and Sam sensed it, realised it as soon as Dean did. "The...the mark."

"The Mark? You don't happen to mean the Mark of Cain, do you?" Meg asked innocently. Everyone turned to her, and she continued like she hadn't seen them fix their attention onto her. "That'd work."

"How?" Dean asked, looking to the pillars. There was no lock here, like in the entrance, but even here there was no door. Nowhere for him to extend his fingers, nowhere for him to make his offering.

"Put your hand here," Meg offered, and Dean followed suit, placing his palm onto the cold rock. She smiled, like a fox, like a demon. "And offer it up."

Sam moved forward when Dean gasped out in pain, but Meg shook her head, and he restrained himself. From where he was standing, he could see the red poison of the mark stretching down from where it was on Dean's arm through the veins, curving and sweeping towards his hand. He tensed his jaw, feeling every shudder in Dean's body, forcing himself to not reach forward as Dean leaned towards the rock in pain, other hand bracing against the wall to stop him from falling.

The last of it was drawn out, like poison from a snake bite, and Dean swayed and would have fallen if it wasn't for Meg's steadying hand on his arm.

"Easy there Tiger," she comforted, steering him towards Sam, who took Dean's weight. Sam didn't look at her, both to Dean's arm, pulling up his sleeve and laughing out in relief when he saw that the mark was gone.

"Entrance demands a price," Meg shrugged, and they were plunged into darkness. "Sacrifice." Her voice was alone in the dark, but Sam could sense Jody, Garth, Alex and Cas nearby, and feel Dean leaning against him.

Lights flickered, and, like they were entering into a factory, high beam rectangles cast the room into an unearthly glow.

"We're here," Meg said smartly, looking around. She balanced her head like she was considering where she was. "You know, I expected more."

It was a warehouse of sorts, with a set of doors to their left.

"Cas?" Dean looked back, and the angel was looking around, eyes wide with wonder.

"They're here." He took a breath of air, closing his eyes in serenity. "All of them."

* * *

All of them stood at the entrance to Hell, looking up to the sky. Cas had freed the souls with a press of his hand, with a smile, with a glance to the Heavens.

"Jo Harvelle."

Cas instructed them on who was entering Heaven when. Dean closed his eyes as he imagined the daughter of Ellen reaching her promised place. Blonde hair and tough attitude, remembering how she fought rather than how she had died.

"I...Deanna Campbell."

Mary's mother, then, who he was named after. He had barely known her, had barely spoken to her as he'd gone back in time to warn Mary about what was happening. But she must have been good, because Mary had named him, her first born, after her, and Mary had been good.

Meg whispered something to Alex, who huffed a laugh. Dean noticed Jody give the demon the side eye, but she didn't intervene.

Cas's voice called out again.

"John Winchester."

Dean swallowed, and looked across at Sam, who met his look with a small nod. This end was bittersweet, this end was their father, who'd done so much and lived so little, who'd done all he could and done nothing at all, finally reaching his heaven. At least he'd be at rest, no matter what he'd been like. No matter who he'd been forced to become.

"Ellen Harvelle."

Ellen. Sweet, cocky, smirking Ellen. Dean sighed and saw as his breath materialised cold in the air in front of him.

"Rufus Turner."

Dean saw Sam mirror his wry grin as Rufus's name was called. He remembered tipping the Johnny Walker on his grave, he remembered the stories Bobby would tell when he got a little too drunk late at night. He remembered the way Rufus would grin, he remembered the first time they'd met.

The sorta guy you could rely on to help in burying a body.

Dean imagined that as the stars spilled across the skies, that every star that blinked into existence was one of their friends, one of their family, finally coming home.

More names. Caleb, Joshua, Isaac, Pastor Jim. And Dean remembered them all.

"Jessica Moore."

Sam smiled, to himself, eyes cast downward. Dean would have liked to reach out and comfort him, but he knew Sam needed a moment where it was just him and his memories. Where he was 22 again, and the world was just _better._

And finally, with an odd reverence, Cas spelt out the last name.

"Mary Winchester."

Sam looked at Dean, hard, and Dean saw that there were tears in his eyes. Whether they'd formed for their mother, or started before it didn't matter. Because there they were, and they'd won. Dean had lost the mark, and they had won. Their mother had finally reached peace, and they were done.

"Hey, Mom," Dean looked up to the sky as he whispered, and no one spoke or moved for a few moments after that, their gazes lost to the sky.

* * *

_Hope you enjoyed :)_

_Don't forget to drop a line and all that jazz_

_Name of Next Chapter: __**The Resurrection of Meg Masters**_


	10. The Resurrection of Meg Masters

_Howdy y'all,_

_So last chapter came out two weeks ago, which means that this was my 'hell-atus' where I sat around and thought about the rest of the season. Story. Whatever. Anyway, the point is, I'm back to weekly to try and beat October 8th (...7th? Who knows) and yeah. _

_Oh yeah, and Male-Queen was sort of...ok you know that thing, where it's like 'she was a female-king' and it's like, sure buddy, the queen's title was supposed to be just 'the wife of the king' but are you seriously going to diminish female and feminine things just to make ur darling seem more special and 'manly'?_

_Just ask Meg. Women are swell and kick ass._

_And this chapters especially important to me as well, in that it hold my 100,000th word (disincluding A/N) and seriously dude this is the longest thing I have ever written._

_And! Double digit chapter! Yay! Get the champagne just kidding we'll wait till chapter 18 bc of the law. _

_Researched: Charlie Brown characters, movie angels (notably the original 'Wings of Desire'), what type of car Cas stole (which I never found out btw)_

_Rewatch: None_

_New Tags: Demonic Possession, Brooklyn, Witchcraft _

* * *

_"Well I'm hot blooded_

_Check it and see._

_I've got a fever of 103_

_Come on Baby do you do more than dance."_

_-_Hot Blooded, _Foreigner_

* * *

In all honesty, he should have noticed the signs sooner.

He was into that voodoo crap, that demonic paraphernalia and those magician mind tricks. Or so his father had called them. Black magic and witchy shit, that he'd hunch over night after night, memorising rituals and spells, sprinkling pretty sprigs of lavender and herbs into his mom's mixing bowl, and then setting it all alight.

Of course, he melted the plastic, and burnt his desk, and the air was charred with the smoke of the coriander (he hadn't been able to find any lavender, that time). He wasn't a very _good _witch, but one all the same. And he should have seen the signs.

But then again, he'd never _really _believed. It'd all been a way out, hadn't it? Some kids go for video games or writing crappy poetry, others go for drugs and drinking and sex, but he went for the other option. The admittedly creepier and more friendless of the spread, but a safe one. More or less.

Because demons didn't exist.

That is, until they did.

The door swung shut with a bang, and it was after it had closed and he had turned that Steven jumped.

Tabitha, all seven years old and pouting, was staring at him, mouth slightly open, eyes slightly vacant as he crossed the threshold.

"_Jesus_," He cursed, clutching at his throbbing heart. "Don't _do _that!"

Tabitha just blinked at him, tilting her head and not blinking.

Steve paused for a moment, just for a moment, looking worriedly at his sister. "Uh, everything alright, Tat?"

She didn't even acknowledge that he had spoken, just stared at him with those unblinking eyes, that unwavering stare.

Like she was infecting him, like her gaze was something that he had to shake off, he ran quickly up the stairs, leaving his little sister and her dark gaze to linger in darkness.

He wondered whether she would stand there, just looking to where he had run for the rest of the night. He wondered if she would blink, whether she would tilt her head, whether she would shrug and walk away.

But he was certain that if he were to open his door and edge down the hall, peer over the stairs and look down to her, he'd see that she was unmoved. Untouched. Eyes still fixedly unblinking. Mouth still decidedly separated _just _so. And so he didn't. Because he didn't want to be right, and was terrified about what would happen if he weren't wrong.

He closed his eyes and he saw her draw closer to him, just walking up the stairs, unstoppable in her tiny body, each placement of her feet cruelly drawn out, each movement of her hands swinging by her waist achingly innocent. And he would slam his door closed, and there she would stand, all night, just _staring _at the white paint.

He shook himself and walked to his computer. Slowly, he opened the lid to his laptop and waiting for it to load, tapped his fingers on the burn mark from the disastrous spell attempt that had nearly burnt his house down. Or so his dad said, storming into his room and refusing to allow Steve to practise any further.

Steve had grudgingly agreed, but still did the odd spell here and there, just to ensure he didn't lose practise until the day the Coven of New York would take him in. As he understood it, covens were primarily all women, but he could see himself rising through the ranks. Becoming the Male-Queen of the New York City Coven.

Or, something like that.

But the world rarely catered for him in that regard, as the followers on his widely unpopular and rarely viewed blog knew all too well.

The screen flickered into completion and he clicked onto the internet browser, quickly navigating to his blog page. With a breadth of hesitation, he furrowed his brow before writing down all he'd seen. Summarising it in a single sentence: "I think my sister might be possessed. More to come."

* * *

"How are they?" Sam asked, as Dean came back into the motel room, slamming his keys on the table.

"Vampire Diaries and Brooklyn 99 are nearly in Sioux Falls, and I haven't managed to get onto Teen Wolf, but I assume he's nearly in Alaska by now."

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes at 'Teen Wolf' but didn't comment on it. "Well, that's good. No lingering side affects?"

"Ah, nothing a little exorcising won't fix," Dean said, passing back a grin as he went off to the mini kitchen, pulling out a beer from the fridge and offering it to Sam.

"I'm good," Sam said absently, pulling his laptop towards him and tapping onto the keys, pulling up whatever page he'd been scouring before Dean had come in.

Sam glanced to the window for a second. The blinds were drawn, as they always were, with only a hint of the outside world available for viewing. And from what he could see, with the oranges and the yellows of the first real sunset they'd seen in weeks, the day was drawing towards its close.

"Yeah, it's getting on," Dean commented, taking a swig of his beer. He nodded to Sam's laptop. "Anything good?"

"Maybe something," Sam said, frowning at the news article. "There's been a series of tweets in the Brooklyn area about the, uh, way some of their neighbours have been acting."

"So, what, we're thinking Changelings, Shifters, Demons...what?"

"Shifters are rare enough, let alone getting along in groups," Sam shook his head, frowning. "No, I think demon possession. Besides, changelings usually go for kids, don't they?"

Dean had started packing, hearing case and moving into autopilot, picking his duffel bag up and propping the sides up on top of his bed. "Usually, yeah. But is there anything else?"

"Not really," Sam shook his head, glancing through all he'd gathered about Brooklyn. "Nothing else but demons really fits the criteria."

"Fair enough." Dean folded a shirt before placing it deftly inside the bag. "You got somewhere we can start?" He glanced over, folding his plaid over shirt into his bag efficiently, not looking down as he placed it within.

"I got an idea," Sam said, spinning the laptop and showing Dean a blog decorated entirely in black and green, with large spooky letters welcoming the cyber space voyager to 'Spiritus Secundus'. "It means, 'Favourable Spirit' in Latin. And here," Sam clicked onto the screen and Dean forwent folding his clothes for getting a closer look, placing down the pair of socks he was rolling to walk over. "Is his last post."

"I think my sister might be possessed, more to come," Dean read aloud, looking down to Sam after he'd finished. "So, let me guess, no more came?"

"Nope, and get this," Sam looked grim. "He posted it three days ago."

"He?" Dean asked, looking back to the blog.

"Dude, give me a little credit," Sam scoffed, offended. "I traced the IP address to a house in Brooklyn, and then cross referenced the address with the national database to access the results of the most recent census, and then tracked any retail activity in the area for the past few years."

Dean blinked. "Did you understand anything you just said? Because I didn't."

Sam spared a moment to give Dean a look before turning back to the Blog. He hit a few keys and brought up a picture of an African American boy, beaming at the camera in what looked like a school photo. "Meet Steven Bright. 16 years old and reported missing two days ago."

Dean slowly went back to packing his bag. "You know, I feel like that was something you could have opened with."

"It's a long drive to New York," Sam said, in a way of sort of answer, but more sidelining around the subject altogether.

"Indeed it is Sammy," Dean said, throwing him a grin. "Good thing you've got me and Hetfield to keep you company."

"Great," Sam muttered, slamming the lid of his laptop and jumping up to get started on his packing. It wouldn't look it from an outsiders perspective, but Sam was a lot messier than Dean. If there were socks on the bathroom floor, either they'd never been either of the Winchesters to begin with or they were Sam's. And Sam always managed to lose track of how many shirts he owned, forcing them to scour the motel to make sure that management didn't have to call them up and learn that the Hardy brothers were as fictitious as their namesake.

"You got everything?" Dean glanced over his shoulder, relying on his practised hands to zip up his bag.

"Uh, no, not yet," Sam picked up a pair of paints and a nearly clean t-shirt and threw them onto his bed.

Dean hesitated, looking torn. "Uh...need some help?"

"...Nope."

* * *

The door opened, and black eyes beamed up at them.

"Clarence says we're goin' to New York," Meg told them, arm outstretched as she leant against the doorway.

Dean frowned at her before looking at Cas, who was standing awkwardly a few paces off. "Seriously, dude? I thought you said that you and her were going to split!"

"We did," Meg forced her way into the room, giving it a once over, greeting Sam with a little wave before turning back to a disgruntled Dean. "I decided life was boring, we are all meaningless and that you're a lot more fun to hang out with than me on my lonesome."

"Well, you're not coming with us to Brooklyn," Dean stated firmly. He looked to Sam for backup, who looked comfortable with him taking the wheel. Even Cas distanced himself, leaving Dean to face down Meg, who'd risen one perfectly disgruntled eyebrow.

"You honestly want to hop off to a Demonic possession _without _your neighbourhood friendly demon?" Meg demanded, hands settling defiantly on her hips. "C'mon. I mean, I _did _die for you. You should be worshipping me. Or something."

Sam made a small noise of agreement at the back of the room. "She has a point, Dean."

"Yes, thank you, Sam," Meg turned to him, before snapping back to Dean, eyes wide as if he should be taking what Sam was saying to heart. "I hate to flog a dead horse, but I _did _give up my life—"

"For us," Dean finished. "We know."

"Look," Meg sighed. "I don't ask for much. Just a ride to a known hang out for Crowley's inbred bastards, Crowley's exact location and a clean shot."

"So, this is really about finding _Crowley_," Cas said, and to Dean, he sounded almost disappointed.

"I really don't know how many times I'm going to have to bring it up, but I did _die,_ you know. Crowley did kill me." Meg gave them all a look. "I was totally, quite completely, actually dead."

Dean almost told her that the king was nearing humanity, that the blood Sam had given him had lain undefeatable traces of empathy throughout his veins. That he might never truly be a demon again. But he didn't, because she's use it to her advantage, and Dean wasn't sure if that was something he wanted yet. He wasn't sure whether their priorities lined up, and he didn't want to ever have to find out.

"Ok, we'll make a deal," Sam suggested, coming forward. Meg turned, interested, and Dean made a vicious cutting gesture to snap Sam out of whatever idea he'd concocted. Sam ignored him, turning to his once bunk-buddy, perhaps-demon-girlfriend, co-runaway with a slight dimpled smile. "You tell us everything you know about you coming back to life, and we'll let you come."

"You know I _could _just transport myself there." Meg smirked. "_My _broken wings still work."

Cas shuffled uncomfortably, and looked at her enviously. He didn't say anything, just looked across at Dean, who was staring furiously at his brother.

"We'd just tie you up in a devils trap," Sam shrugged.

Meg scoffed. "Yeah, right." At Sam's unwavering stare she broke eye contact and rolled her eyes. "Alright. Well, Cas had heard the story, so if you all want to take a seat, we can get started on tonight's production of Deathtrap."

Sam complied, dumping the clothes he'd been clutching next to him on the bed as he seated himself, balancing his elbows on his knees and crossing he wrists over each other in front of his legs. Meg tilted her head towards Dean, but he just slouched more comfortably, nodding for her to get on with it.

"Ok, so, in 'Demon Heaven', it's sort of a free for all, let's-kill-em bloodbath than the Memory Lane strolls of human heaven," Meg explained, pacing easily in front of them, her leather jacket creasing on the inside of her elbows as she bent her arms to use her hands to talk.

"It sounds like purgatory," Cas frowned.

Meg inclined her head towards him. "Quite right, Otto. Not that I've ever been to purgatory, but, you know," she waved her hands in a dismissive gesture. "I have friends. And stuff."

"Friends? No way."

"Clam it, Deano," Meg shut him up. "There was a rumour, that sort of reached my ears after a few months of slaving away in the darkness. That some dick plucked the wings off the canaries and dumped them into the coal mine. That this included the Reapers, and that the world was changing." Meg smirked. "And you can imagine my surprise. And then, of course, all the plans that were to follow. I'm smarter and older than most of the demons trapped down in there, and I know a thing or two about Death and what that meant." She adopted her trademark demonic smile and glanced across at them all. "And I bid my time."

"And what? The doors to death just opened up?" Dean frowned. "Seems pretty unlikely."

"Oh no, they didn't," Meg assured him. She finally stopped pacing and leant against the wall, settling in and holding her arms across her chest. "There was a hell of a lot of fighting, and a hell of a lot of killing, and I wasn't the only one who forced my way out."

"Do you know who else?" Sam asked, and the obviousness of his forced nonchalance gave away his nervousness. Of all the people in the world, it was them who had the most to lose when demons and other monsters came back to life.

Meg shrugged. "No one big. Lilith, Azazel, Alistair, all your top buds are still tripping over their own vomit."

"Well, that's something," Dean muttered, quirking his head and then settling back with crossed arms. "But hardly all the powerful people we put away."

"Chill, 5.0," Meg assuaged him, raising her hands in a defensive position. "In that short time I was free to move about, I didn't stand still. I asked around, got the down low, figured out what was what."

"So you know that Crowley's still in charge," Cas said, frowning.

"Yeah," Meg said, not bothering to hide her seething resentment. "I heard. Also, that the 'Usurper' was out for the count. Slayed by our one and only Dean Winchester. That Sammy Winchester was possessed by the knight. That Dean killed him to save the world." She barred her teeth, in her sharkish attempt at a smile. "Love, hope, desperation and co-dependency all rolled into one tasty enchilada."

"Shut up, Meg," Dean advised, glaring at her, using all the strength he had not to turn to Sam and see how his brother was responding. Because if he did, and their eyes met, and their voices rose beyond the ability of tongues, then Dean didn't know what would happen next. Didn't _want _to know the after affects of feeling so _raw _and filled with life.

Abaddon for his brother, Abaddon for Sam's life.

He knew, he _knew_, that if someone asked him to do it again, if it was all brought back to where everything was the same, but the _tiniest _thing was different, he would have hesitated. He would have chosen differently.

The world would have fallen to the other side of the knife.

"Tell them what you told me, Meg," Cas told her quickly, catching scent of the animosity the subject matter was tending towards.

"Oh yeah," Meg said, either not caring for her misstep or not noticing it. "Fun story. No one's seen Crowley in weeks. Not since he freed this Crossroads demon from a pack of hunters. Or at least," her voice dropped confidingly, "No one's talkin'."

"So you want to come with us, to interrogate some demons, to find Crowley," Sam summarised, and Dean finally felt brave enough to meet Sam's glance in his direction. "You gotta be kidding me."

"What? Seriously?" Meg demanded. "I've told you everything! We had a _deal_!" She glared venomously, her eyes sinking dangerously close to black. "And people say that _we're _the deceiving ones."

"She has a point, Sam, Dean," Cas said, with his earnest eyes and heartfelt expression. Meg looked over at him, caught off guard and oddly thankful, her face morphing into the uncomfortable expression with an uncharacteristic amount of grace. "We owe it to her. She did—"

"_Die _for you thankless bastards," Meg finished decisively, still fuming, arms crossed vigilantly, eyes narrowed with fury and irritation. "'Thankless' being the key word there."

Dean and Sam turned to each other to work up their decision. Sam nodded, almost invisibly, and turned to the demon to deliver the verdict.

"Fine," Sam sighed, meeting Meg's eyes with the same wary caution he held around all demons and angels. Dean tried to think of where that paranoia had been unfounded, but could think of none at that moment. Even Cas, who'd been watching the entire exchange almost silently, had fallen off the wagon more than once. He thought perhaps the new angels, the ones Cas had been leading and the ones they had met. Perhaps Hannah or Sariel or Romeo were trustworthy, perhaps they were exceptions to the long standing rule, but history was always being repeated.

And there was always that niggling doubt at the back of Dean's mind that one day, he'd turn, and there Hannah would stand, blade in hand. She'd look up to him, and she'd smile, and he would die.

And that would be that.

It was offensive, to Hannah, who had never been anything but kind to the Winchesters, and to himself, who could probably take an angel after all the practice he'd had fighting them, even if snuck up on, and even if he had finally dropped the mark of Cain.

"You won't regret it," Meg promised, and though Dean searched, there was no malice to her tone. No twist in her words. There was something ironic about how truthful she was, despite herself. Something ironic that of all of them, of Sam, who still had the last drops of Azazel's blood spinning through his veins alongside Sarah's, and Cas, who for a year after he'd saved Sam from the cage had deceived both of the brothers, to himself, who hadn't been truthful about anything important since the start of everything.

"So," Sam said finally. "Brooklyn."

* * *

"Please don't tell me that you're actually a 45 year old could-a-been rapper," Meg deadpanned as she took in Cas's car.

He frowned, looking down at the cream of the car he'd stolen, and awkwardly hesitated, glancing over at Meg, who was looking at it, displeased. "It's...just a car, Meg."

"It's just a _pimps _car," she corrected.

Cas hesitated, side eyeing Meg carefully. He had no idea how to work through what her coming back meant. She was something to him that he'd never be able to fully eradicate, she left a stain on his soul that would never fully fade. He knew their friendship, or whatever it was that their relationship was, was something special and important and real. A demon and an angel. Heaven and Hell. Light and dark. An entangling of shades of grey.

Sam and Dean were already in the Impala, payed off their motel room and waiting for Cas and Meg to lead them out to Brooklyn and the demonic infestation. Cas looked out to them and saw that the brothers were talking, and with the amused look Dean threw him, the angel assumed it was about him.

Meg sighed and moved to the shot gun seat, picking open the door and swooping in. "Alrighty, then, Damiel. We good to go?"

Cas obligingly walked over, feet hitting the ground in a basic, consistent rhythm.

_He didn't know what to think. What to think. She was here._

Cas slid in, and frowned at but didn't mention Meg's boots propped up under the windscreen. She grinned over at him, flicking through a magazine she probably didn't pay for, in a pair of sunglasses she definitely didn't have, sitting in a car she could have foregone for instantaneous transportation.

Perhaps, and it was a _strong _perhaps, she felt as close and significant to him as he felt to her. Perhaps all that talk, about sex and kissing and love was less of a pretence and more of a defence mechanism. Because what more assured something wouldn't be taken seriously if it were joked about? How else would Meg ensure that what she did wouldn't ever, _ever_, be seen as it was?

She was a demon. She had a name and a stage and a part to play. Cas was an angel, he had a name. And a script, just like her.

As Cas started the car, Meg dropped her feet and leant forward, picking through the music and selecting a station Cas thought Dean would be particularly partial to. She kicked back, didn't put on a seatbelt and Cas pulled out after the Winchester brothers.

_She was here._

The sun streamed through the window and hit off her shades. She snorted at something she read in her (probably stolen) magazine and she was alive.

She was alive.

And Cas

—_Alive and alive and Meg, she's a demon, whattothinkidon'tknowidon't—_

didn't know what to think.

* * *

Dean wanted to broach the topic. Like everything else important in their lives, it had been unceremoniously swept under the rug, caught up with all the other bullshit they'd been forced to live through. Sam had used to be the one to dig that sort of thing up, to pick up the pieces and force things to be fixed, but after everything that being emotional had cost his brother, Dean wasn't surprised when he opted for a different path.

Even if that path was a thousand times longer and a million times more harrowing.

"Hey, uh, Sammy?" Dean asked, looking over, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, just off the beat of the music. He spared the barest of moments to look over at Sam before turning back to the road.

"Uh, yeah?" Sam asked, looking over and tilting the screen of his laptop down so that Dean would know that he was giving his full attention. In his peripheral vision Dean could see Sam adjust himself so that they were facing, but couldn't bring himself to look away from the road again. "What's up?"

"We..." Dean attempted, trailing off as he lost his nerve. With a surge of effort he cleared his throat and tried again. "We went to _Hell_, Sammy."

Sam's laptop snapped shut and Dean heard his brother readjust himself, so that his weight was held by the old leather seats of their car, and the sun caught him at a damaging angle, where the shadows along his face lengthened and darkened his face. Long stripes painting around his jaw and into his eye sockets. "Yeah."

"Right," Dean agreed uncomfortably. He let the silence sift around them, the drumming of his fingers on the steering wheel slowing but still out of time. He finally took the initiative to look over at his brother and he saw Sam watching him, despondent, eyes half lowered, hands held loosely over his chest. He looked young, young and vulnerable. Dean's heart sprang in his chest and echoed harshly throughout his body, his bones shaking with the tremors. He looked fully out to the road, eyes curving along the design of the road, hands moving intuitively with the shifts he had to follow. "And I...I, uh, saw Alistair," his hands tightened around the wheel. "And...I _know _it wasn't real, and I _know _he wasn't actually there, but..." he took a pause, took a breath, counted to three. Composed himself and took charge. "But it _felt _real."

And it wasn't eloquent or moving or spiritual or quote-worthy. And when Sam looked back on this, if he ever did, he wouldn't remember their conversation for tricky wordplay or the insubordinate fire of the english language and how it could dominate, if pressed and melded, almost all emotion. But it was out there, and when he spared another second to look at his brother, the shadows had melted, and the lines had been redrawn, but softer, kinder.

Sam was thankful.

"Lucifer," Sam said, pronouncing each syllable carefully. Like he was a little boy, practising over and over again to rid himself of a speech impediment. "I...I didn't..." Sam didn't finish, but Dean could fill in the blanks.

_Torture and betrayal and ice and snow, a cold laugh floating off as if stolen by a shrill wind, a scream in the night that you know you could have saved and blood and blood and blood—_

Dean blinked and scared himself, just for a moment, wondering whether what he'd just been thinking about had been about Sam, or himself.

"It's..." Dean searched at the back of his mind for something to convey how...how _there _for Sam he was, how _present_. How losing the Mark felt like another attempt at life, _another _new leaf and another fresh chance. How all that fighting between them had led to nothing. Nothing but death. And if it was misery and death or love and death, Dean knew which path he'd prefer to follow.

He'd die, but at least he'd go with no regrets that he hadn't _lived._

"It's hard to remember," he finally said, talking slowly, words building up momentum. He heard shifting in Sam's seat, but didn't have the courage in his quivering heart to turn and see what his little brother was doing. "All of what we've been through. It's hard..."

Sam swallowed and Dean heard his hair scratch lightly upon the leather as he nodded. "Yeah, Dean. I know. It is."

Dean let out a long sigh of air, finishing it up with a wry smile. "Well, we're nearly there, right? Nearly beyond the point of crappiness and into whatever the Hell is on the other side of that Rainbow?"

"Hey, it's always darkest before the dawn," Sam shrugged.

And their dawn was coming, coming after a night long drawn out and suffered through. A starless night with an absent moon and a soiled earth. With lonely strangers and misdirected car alarms.

Their dawn would be _spectacular_.

* * *

New York city was at a grid lock, and from what Dean could tell, wasn't going to be moving along anytime soon. After nearly two days and a half straight of driving, Dean was over it, and this seriously wasn't helping matters. Sam was slumped next to him, chest rising and falling evenly as he slept off the night shift. Dean turned, sighing, back to the long backlog of cars in front of him. He should have known better than to hit the city at rush hour, but they'd already stopped for the first night and they hadn't wanted anymore delays.

Speaking of they, Dean glanced fruitlessly throughout the cars surrounding him, wondering if he could pick out Meg and Cas's car yet. He knew it was pointless to call now, and that all it would serve was a three line call and a follow up when they got there anyway. And Dean knew it was really his worry over them, well, mainly Cas, that caused his niggling to reach for his phone, but he also knew that they were more than capable of taking care of themselves.

An angel and a demon, and what did he have to worry about?

Sam shifted in his sleep and muttered something, legs jerking out like he was running in his dream just as Dean inched a few yards further along. Dean looked over absently, but Sam was smiling, and so, hesitantly, Dean joined him, keeping the smile on his face as he turned back to the road.

Keeping it etched on there like soon, if he tried hard enough, he might just believe it.

There was a decisive toss from Sam's side of the car and he moaned awake, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as Dean turned to check on him.

His skin was papery and grey, and his eyes looked pinched and small, but he looked well rested, and content, as he glanced around the car.

He stretched and yawned, and Dean fought down that all natural instinct to yawn back. "Where are we?"

"Just outside NYC," Dean said grimly, looking down the highway to where the gridlock was still unyielding.

"Damn," Sam swore, looking around and blinking as the sunlight hit his retinas. "What happened?"

"Don't know," Dean replied, and Sam looked ready to jump out the car and see what everybody else knew. "Hey, whoa, chill man. Traffics probably just bad."

"This bad?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow, already out of his sleepy, disorientated self and into his righteous, determined one. "Dean, I don't think traffic _gets _this bad. Have you tried the radio?"

Dean gestured to the machine, which, at that moment, had been playing some Pink Floyd around in the background. "No, I've been reconnecting to a lost youth."

"You're so weird."

"Oh shut up. You love me," Dean grinned, and Sam gave a derisive, pointed look in reply.

Dean sighed and tapped onto the radio. "Ok, fine, I _assumed _it was just the traffic. Let's see if there's anything on."

It took a few times to get them to a News channel, and when they did, it took the whole bulletin before they got to traffic.

"_And there's been an emergency announcement to avoid Route I-281 as there has been a shock pile up of cars. So far, no fatalities have been reported—"_

"Shit," Sam murmured, looking across all the cars to where the crash site would have been, eyes blinking against the sinking sun.

"—_But Police and Firemen have refused comment until after the crash site was cleared and all facts have been accounted for. Lanes have finally started opening up and traffic is being allowed through, but it'll be a slow crawl until the entire road is allowed to clear. Back to you—"_

Dean snapped the radio off, returning it to the lilting tunes of Syd Barrett and the boys, but not really hearing the music. He gritted his teeth angrily, forcing himself not to snap out as he moved the impala another few metres.

"Dean, chill," Sam warned, looking more haggard as the sun sped up its journey into night, pushing back the strands of his hair and sighing. "No point getting frustrated."

"Now, that was exactly what I needed, thanks, Sam," Dean snapped, not looking over as he dealt with his irritation. Of _course _Sam would say that, he'd just woken up. Hadn't had to sit through the hours of driving, and the hours of sitting, and the hours of nothing but his own thoughts and the ringing tunes of The Sweet to keep him company (which he'd changed to Alice in Chains when he'd stopped for Gas on the interstate). He hadn't—

Dean's thoughts were stopped abruptly as he felt his phone vibrate against his leg. He paused as he heard it ring, digging it out and seeing Cas's contact flash up onto the screen. Dean answered it, calling out a small "Cas" to Sam's questioning look.

"Hey," he said, pressing the answer button and holding it next to his ear. "What's up?"

"_You shouldn't drive and talk on your mobile, Dean,_" Meg chastised from the other end of the line, and Dean could imagine her satisfied, cat-got-the-cream grin. "_It's dangerous, you know._"

"Oh, Meg," Dean stated blandly, looking to Sam to make sure his brother caught the memo. Sam did, rolling his eyes and settling back into his seat, but not looking as put out as Dean felt. "Where's Cas?"

"_Don't you ever listen to anything I say_?" the demon demanded, the sigh of leather settling underweight hissing through the phone as she adjusted in her seat. "_It's dangerous to drive and talk on the phone at the same time. Cas is driving._" She paused and Dean could hear a low voice in the background. "_He wants you to know he says hi, by the way._" There was another low rumbling, a lot more put out, that suggested that that was _not _what Cas had been trying to say, but Meg ignored it. "_Anyway, news is, there's a crash site up ahead_."

"Yeah, we heard," Dean affirmed, turning to Sam and mouthing 'Car Crash', met by Sam's deadpanned glare that read 'Yeah, could've guessed that one' as easily as if he'd said it out loud. Dean turned to the phone, grinning to himself a little. That he could still irritate his little brother. That things that were precious still were, and things that they'd thought lost could be found. "Why?"

"_Well_," Meg said, dropping her voice back to casual, nearly lazy. "_Want me to go see what all the fuss is about?_"

"Why?" Dean demanded, wondering what sort of prizes could be stolen from the broken body of a pile up of cars.

"_Well, use that tiny, monkey brain of yours for a second_," Meg said, and Dean rolled his eyes. "_We go to a city riddled with demonic infestation, and suddenly it sees one of the worst car crashes in reasonable memory. Don't think there's something a little off here, Private?_"

"You think a demon did this?" Dean asked, running over what he knew and hoping that it wasn't. Because, Hell, if the demons were lashing out at such a noticeable scale, they were going to have their work cut out for them.

"_Well, that's why I wanna head down_," Meg explained slowly, like she was talking to a child. "_You know, poke around. Get the down low. All that suave, detective crap._"

"You can still teleport, can't you?" Dean mused, talking more to himself than the demon at the other end of the line.

"_Sure can_," Meg replied, smarmy. "_What persona do you think I should go for to get the most out of the trip? Terrified bystander or desperate relation?_"

"How about 'Obnoxious Bitch'?" Dean suggested, and Meg barked out a laugh through the phone. Dean ignored his brothers put-off air and tried not to feel at least a _little _pleased that she had enjoyed his joke.

"_That's a good one. I'll tell my secretary. Careful, Deano. Don't want me to start liking you now, do you?_" Meg said easily, unfazed, and Dean hadn't expected her to be.

"Ok—"

"_Hang on, James, wanna run this by your Bond Girl before I go special ops for you_?" Meg asked him, halting his agreement. She assumed he hadn't understood when he paused, so she sighed, rough and coarse down the phone, and Dean could _feel _the eye roll. "_Sam, you idiot._"

"Yes, I _know_, Sam," Dean informed her indignantly, pulling the phone away and turning to his brother, who'd been listening to Dean's half of the conversation half heartedly after a few minutes into the conversation. Sam had perked up at his name though, and was looking over patiently and curiously, head tilted slightly to the side.

"What's up?" Sam asked, saving Dean from introducing the explanation. His hazel eyes were pinched slightly suspiciously, and Dean fought down the curdle of irritation that, after everything, after how hard he'd tried to _change_, there was _still—_but no. He couldn't expect miracles in a measurement of hours. He and Sam might never reclaim what once had been theirs, that easy, effortless communication, that perfect, synchronised harmony.

And Dean, as much as he hated it, _Oh God_, he'd have to accept it. Because he'd take it, his little brother, his whacked out relationship, no matter what. No matter _what_.

"Meg," Dean said lightly, and if Sam noticed the change in pitch and the drop in the mood, it didn't show. "She wants to go and check out the crash site. See if the demons decided to play Terminator."

"Whoa, like that plane demon that we took out after I left Stanford?" Sam frowned, eyes wide with wondering. His lips twitched into something not quite a smile, but not quite a frown, but rather a melancholy line that decorated his lips with nostalgia and regret. Jess and Sarah and their Dad and the colt, Missouri and Azazel and seeing Mom's ghost.

Dean wondered if it hit Sam as hard as it had hit him when he'd gone back to see Missouri before Sam had been brought back to life. He wondered if Sam missed it when it was just them, just the road, just Jess's ghost behind them and the rest of the world ahead.

Dean ducked his head as he managed a small, sad smile. When had everything become so complicated?

Dean pulled the phone back to his ear, taking Sam's non-answer to be an agreement. "He's all for it, Meg," he spoke to the receiver, to where the demon had been patiently waiting, with no amount of derisive huffing when he finally turned back to talk to her. "Call us when you get back."

"_Gotcha_," Meg assured him, and Dean felt more than heard the phone drop to the seat. There was a crinkling and Cas's voice spoke through.

"_She just left_," Cas told him. Then, after a brief paused, assured Dean, "_Don't worry. Traffic isn't moving._"

"It's all good, Cas," Dean said, perhaps a little too formally, but Cas didn't seem to mind. Perhaps it was Meg as well, that was triggering all these memories. Because although she'd been there during the apocalypse and the leviathan situation and made her sacrifice against Crowley, it was really all the way to the start when she'd made her mark. When they'd first met her. When they'd tracked her down to that abandoned warehouse and saw her controlling those daeva's.

"_Goodbye, Dean_."

And the phone clicked off.

* * *

When Meg appeared, she made extra sure that she wasn't seen by anyone. It wasn't that hard, with all the attention being on the smoking wreckages of what looked like five cars and a semi-trailer all tangled and squished together. Now, Meg was no expert, but she was pretty certain that with that amount of structural damage, there had to be at least a few fatalities.

She walked carefully forward, keeping her hand near her angel blade, letting her eyes wander from car to car, seeing the police take statements and the fire fighters finished up controlling the blaze.

Meg turned her head suddenly when she felt a prickling on the back of her neck, and grimaced when she saw what her instincts had been calling her towards.

"Urgh," she winced, taking in the sight of the piled black body bags. Honestly, though, she was more irritated that whatever the police had done might have ruined her chances of finding proof of demonic possession than of actually seeing her guess right in that of dead bodies.

She gazed around again, keeping her gaze open and scared. She was a demon, she could act, and act well enough that when a policeman spotted her, he approached her to talk rather than spray her away with the water hose.

"Uh, excuse me, miss," he announced himself gruffly, lips twitching beneath a raggedy, yet quite impressive moustache. "You're not authorised to be here."

"Oh, sorry," she apologised, turning to the policeman, deciding disorientated was the most likely act to pull through. "I just didn't know what the problem was, why we weren't moving..." she let her lost eyes catch his, and saw that he was watching her with worry. Meg his a grin. _Gotcha_. She took a harsh breath, letting her sight fall on the body bags. "Are those..are there _people _in there?"

The policeman looked at her with a touch more sympathy now, but Meg couldn't stay long to chat. Demons could manipulate and lie, but sooner or later he'd notice something was up. He'd ask her some question she couldn't answer and the play would be over, curtains down and no encore. She'd have to kill him, and any resemblance of a friendship between herself and the second Triumvirate of Rome could be entirely forgotten. "Look, Miss. I'm sorry, but I gotta ask you to move on. You don't want to see this."

"But..." Meg dug desperately and sighed internally. Sorry, Dean. Looks like she'd have to go behind door 2 after all. "But...is that..." She reached out awkwardly for one of the number plates and read it slowly, trying her best to make the numbers seem familiar. "_4FG 12D..._Oh my God, Oh my _God_," she took a shuddering breath and pulled back, shaking her knees and falling slightly, jerking out her hand and nearly grimacing when the policeman almost missed catching her. "_No_. No, this isn't..._Sam_?"

"Did you know the deceased person in that car, Ma'am?" The police asked, obviously uncomfortable with her display of emotion. Meg had flung out for Sam, deciding that it wasn't as weird as 'Cas', not as Gender obvious as Dean and a decent, realistic name for dude or girl. Chances were they hadn't run the plates yet, but it would only be a matter of time before they managed to find evidence that said who was who. Meg's deadline had just been cut again.

She stumbled forward, keeping her knees loose as she fell over the border and into the sealed off section. She supposed she should start screaming, but she choose heaving, gasping breaths instead. More believable, and kept any officers who might have an idea of who she was supposed to be calling out to in the dark for a few minutes longer.

The excessive oxygen from her forced hyperventilation was making her head spin, but she fought it down easily and fell to her knees beside the number plate, cradling the scrap metal in her hands, staring down at it unblinkingly.

One, two, three tears splashed down on it, casting the yellow dust off in perfect circles.

"Hey! Hey, Ma'am! You can't be here!"

Meg ran the substance between her fingers and gave a small smile. When the policeman came over, she dropped the smile and wailed, long and loud, and collapsed into his arms.

* * *

"_Sulfur_," Meg assured him, and it had been how she'd Sam as well.

"Wait, what?" Sam asked, frowning, placing two and two together, but not before Meg could but in.

"_Definite demonic possession. I checked out the crash site, and I swear, man, Sulfur, all over the damned crash_," Meg answered for him, dropping the usual snark. She sounded serious, and if Sam hadn't known better, worried. "_And these bitches aren't messing around_."

"We think that they're destructive demons," Sam told her, looking over to Dean who had kept up a small crawl after traffic had picked up at the 40 minute mark. "You know, like the ones that used to control freak Weather Accidents, but have evolved onto the more...modern of todays disasters."

"_Like plane crashes_," Meg suggested, and Sam ignored the ringing insinuation in her voice. She wanted him to ask her how she knew, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. It was petty, but Sam didn't care.

_Besides_, he thought bitterly. _She's probably read those damned books. Like every other creature in the universe._

"Yeah," Sam agreed nonchalantly. "Like plane crashes."

"_Okay, I'll chat with Clarence here and see what we come up with,_" Meg farewelled, and Sam took the initiative to end the call, pressing his thumb down on the red button.

"All good?" Dean glanced over, reaching down and turning up A-Ha now that Sam had finished on the phone.

"Well, remember how I was thinking about the demon on that plane..."

* * *

The finest Brooklyn had to offer was pretty far off the fine scale, but Dean's loud announcing and his parading into the rooms, excited to be stretching his legs, even if it was just to commute into a shitty motel room, leant a tired smile to Sam's lips. He wasn't as tired as Dean, having slept in the car, but the warmth of the setting sun and the slowness of the traffic hadn't done anything for his awareness, so he nearly stumbled as he pulled himself out, even as he gazed upward to a starless night sky.

"It's a shame, isn't it?" Cas said from beside him, and Sam jerked in surprise as, even wingless, Cas could still sneak up on him. Cas mistook his surprise for confusion, and nodded upward, letting his blue gaze settle on the cloudless, lightless expanse. "That light down here means that there is no light up there. That light must be _borrowed_."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, slightly uncomfortable and still regaining momentum. But he looked up again all the same, tilting his head just-so, letting himself get lost in the abruptness of it. "Yeah."

"Sammy! Hurry up, would you?"

"That's my cue," Sam muttered awkwardly, letting his gaze drop and turning to Cas for one final, evasive nod goodbye. Cas didn't seem unperturbed, just smiling back before dropping back into a nonchalant slump, letting his eyes flick from point to point, from the places where the constellations should have been to the places where the planets should have been.

Sam pulled his duffel bag out of the trunk and before setting off into the main lobby and through into his room, he looked back to the angel, gaze lost amidst the starless heaven.

He moved away though, and didn't look back, when the demon joined him. Meg pressed herself against the impala, leaning on the black, sleek sides and tilted her chin to the same angle as Cas. Because when the light caught her face, she looked sad, lonely.

And Sam had to wonder, really, how it felt for something so dead to finally die.

* * *

"We're extremely sorry for your loss, Mr. Bright," Sam consoled, standing side by side in front of Steven Bright's family home with Dean. "And right now, all we can do is work with you to the best of our abilities to figure out some way to find your son."

Dean smiled in that serious, consoling smile he reserved for conning and hustling, and with another desperate, sullen look, the man invited the two 'agents' into his house.

"What did you say your names were again?" he asked gruffly, turning them into the living room and offering them to both take a seat on the double seater couch.

"Uh, we didn't," Dean answered. "This is agent Bramlett, and I'm agent Walker."

The man narrowed his eyes. "Isn't that...Fleetwood Mac?"

Sam stiffened, but Dean looked nonplussed. He barked out a laugh and immediately set out a polished, comfortable exterior. "Yeah, we get that one all the time. Don't we, Bramlett?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed, managing a half smile and meeting Mr. Bright's eyes so as to not seem suspicious. He knew the tells, he knew what people looked for. Sam Winchester, never let it be understated, knew how to lie.

"So," Dean started, sitting up fully and adjusting the sides of his jacket and starting carefully. "Did Steven seem to be acting..._strange_, to you, at the time he disappeared?"

"Strange?" The older man asked tiredly, giving up the tired smile of someone who didn't know where to begin. "With Steven, that never even began to cover it."

Sam exchanged a quick look with Dean and then he leant forward, frowning. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bright. Would you be able to expand on that?"

"Sure," the man offered easily. He looked upstairs and nodded, in the direction that must have been Steve's room. "He always went up there, tinkering away with bits of bones and old books that he'd get delivered into our mail box when they thought I didn't notice. Managed to make the most terrible smells and scared our daughter, Tabitha. We told him to stop—"

"So, like, Witchcraft?" Sam asked, tilting his head in question and keeping his gaze and tone as neutral as possible.

"Yeah, I s'pose," Mr. Bright replied, and though Sam could see that he didn't particularly like his sons practises, he still didn't hold it against him. He still loved him.

"And, who was it, again, that sold the books to your son?" Dean asked, reverting the conversation back to the more typical police work to avoid suspicion. It was a method they often used, denying interviewees the confusion of their off questions by voiding their suspicions.

"I don't know, some place online I believe," the father answered sourly, glancing off to the side to have a private moment to himself with his displeasure in modern technology and the new wonders of accessibility. He looked up sharply when he realised what they were insinuating, searching from Dean to Sam. "You don't think that had anything to do with it, do you?"

"We think that Steven must have been very interested, and that his practised might give us clues to where he is now," Sam assured him calmly, keeping the man under control with a serious, calming gaze. "Don't worry, Mr. Bright. We'll find your son."

The man lost his fire and averted his eyes again, this time seeking comfort in wariness than solace in irritation. "Of course." He looked up, but focused on neither of them, and Sam could tell that their welcome at the Bright household was coming to an end. "And if there's anything I can do to help you, please, tell me."

Sam knew, beyond reasonable doubt, that his son was dead. But he couldn't say that, and there was no comfort in hearing your worst fears confirmed. So he did what he was supposed to. He planted a smile on his face, looked placating and comforting at Steve's father and nodded as Dean offered assurances.

"If there is, one more thing," Dean hesitated, spinning the end of his spiel to a close. "Could we look through your son's room, before we go?"

_Now_ the father looked suspicious, and Sam knew that if the pleasantness of the house and the way he'd been evaluating them for the past moments were anything to go by, then Mr. Bright was clever enough to tell the difference between their FBI badges and the real deal. "The police have already gathered all the evidence that they think is important to the case?"

"We are, well aware of that," Sam quickly put in, cutting off whatever Dean had been about to offer. "We just have an inkling that there's something that they're overlooking."

"Really?" He asked, unconvinced. "They were pretty thorough."

"Well, they're certain that there's some part of the picture they're missing," Dean pronounced evenly, not leaving room for discussion. "And we'd rather you let us help you than force us to come back later with a warrant."

They were totally bluffing now, they had no way of getting a real court order, and the fact that they would have _time _to come back after. The demon infestation was getting worse, with Cas certain that there were more demonic omens swarming over Brooklyn and surrounding areas than there was in New Orleans.

He and Meg were checking out the bodies of the crash victims, finding out if there were any signs of possession. Cas was fairly sure that he'd have the juice to decide which one had been the one under the control of the demon, and from that they might be able to backtrack. Hopefully, and Sam knew it was a bitter hope, the possessed had been from Brooklyn, because at least it'd give them some common ground to start blasting their exorcisms.

"And you two are somehow able to see that?" Mr. Bright asked, looking Dean up and down, before moving onto Sam, unimpressed.

"Well, there certainly ain't no one like us in the entirety of the Bureau, that's for sure," Dean assured him, with a tight grin and when Mr. Bright was distracted, he passed a gleeful wink Sam's way.

Sam received it with a roll of his eyes, but he liked that idea. It reminded him of what he was fighting for, what he was aiming for' all that talk about being separate and different from the bureau. The world was at stake, and he had to fight harder, be better, impersonate FBI agents and lie to grieving parents, because there was nobody else who could do what they did. And while it was daunting and eternal, that massiveness, that undefinable void, it was also humbling. And Sam had always appreciated, in the end, being brought down a peg.

Steve Bright's room was exactly as Sam would assume a normal 16 year old's room to be like. Messy, clothes on the floor, pictures of sports stars and busty ladies pinned haphazardly onto the wall. But Steve was far from the usual kid, and it's normality was worrying Sam. Dean and Sam snapped gloves on to keep up appearances, and wandered through the room aimlessly, before each settled at the opposite ends.

"He stopped the witchcraft, or...whatever, a few weeks ago," Mr. Bright announced himself, moving into the room and looking sombrely around from the neatly made bed to the shuttered off window. He ran a hand over a black scorch mark on the desk, and Sam assumed that it had something to do with it.

Sam was content to let the conversation dwindle off into silence from there, but Dean gestured for him to keep it going. Now that Sam considered it, Mr. Bright was probably in there to ensure that anything they were taking wasn't too private or too irreplaceable.

Sam stumbled for something more to add as Dean poked around in the highest amount of privacy he could accumulate. "So...uh, why...why was that?" Sam asked, frowning in concentration at the father.

"He nearly burnt the house down," Mr. Bright smiled fondly, tapping the desk again, that black scorch mark catching Sam's eye again. While Sam was no expert in pyrotechnics, nor even slightly informed on any sort of fire lighting, other than the grave desecration types, but he was sure that a fire that small was a reasonably small risk of a full blown house fire. Sam wasn't about to correct him, though. He needed to keep the man relaxed and on side, but he also sort of got it. In a parents eyes, every step is a leap and every twig a sprained ankle. Nothing was anything without the worst possible consequence. Sam let his mind entertain for a second, the notion of kids, but almost immediately shut it down. Hunters now and Hunters before him had all shared the same, invisible mantra. No kids, die young, die bloody and save as many people as you could.

Dean was poking around, searching for Steve's spell books and Sam desperately reached out for something else to talk about. "So, you...you said you had a daughter? What other family do you have?"

"My wife died a few years after Tabitha was born," Mr. Bright said, in that bored, rehearsed voice that Sam recognised as the one that those who had repeated a tragedy too many times used. You lose connection with the words, the event doesn't seem real and all of a sudden, as well as being in grief, you are also giving away the very essence of the grief and missing that you need so badly. He just looked sad now, and so he looked ready to shrug out of the room. "So, I guess I'll leave you to it."

"Yeah, thanks," Sam said, almost distractedly. He turned back to the shelves just as Mr. Bright slowly walked away.

"What have we got?" he asked in a low voice, turning to Dean who'd been ruffling through the draws of his desk. From what Sam could see, the laptop had been taken away to be investigated, but he knew if it was going to be anything to lead them to suspect that he'd been summoning demons, it was going to be in one of the spell books.

Which, as it may have been, had been taken as well.

"Nothing yet," Dean said, looking back at him and easing open another draw, rifling through a collection of pages for homework and the odd pen and pencil. Sam hoped that in the precious few hours after Steven disappeared, when most of the clues would be found and they had the highest chance of finding him, they would have brushed off the depths of old draws for things more accessible. And Sam wouldn't have blamed them for not looking through the ones Dean was, because while it was a likely hiding place for a spell book you wanted to keep out of sight from your Dad, it was stuffed full of old papers and dead pens, nothing to give the indication that it had been touched in the past _year_.

"Right," Sam said, moving off to the nightstand, and digging through the underwear draw, and then the shirts, then the pants and the then the draw of miscellaneous things that don't belong in anything else.

There was nothing between the fabrics, just a stretch of the typically nice and yet not entirely nice _looking_ clothes that came from not buying for yourself, and the common hint of lavender, which must have been the soap used to clean the clothes.

But just as Sam was about to pull away, his fingers tipped along the spine of a leathery book, and, almost breathlessly, he reached up and pulled it out, a firm _click _hear when the book was entirely removed from its contraption.

"Hey dude, I don't think these draws have been touched in years. This one's from 2009—"

"I think I got something," Sam said, leafing through the book, the leather pressing into his fingers, reading through the Latin translations and mentally trying to translate what he knew as he went through. No key words jumped out at him, but when he paused at a particular page, he could make out that it was definitely a recipe of some sort, some sort of minor spell.

"Spell books?" Dean asked, looking over Sam's shoulder to the leather bound book, eyes flicking to where Sam's had, and although Dean was severely lacking in the Latin translation department (he didn't even know what the _albative case _was, for God's sakes) he did recognise the format. "Spell _book_." He corrected himself.

"If there's anything on demon summoning, we can know if it _was _him who summoned the demon, and we can also know what sort of demon he summoned," Sam said, satisfied, snapping the book shut and putting it into his pocket.

"Excellent work, Watson," Dean congratulated, hitting him on the back and standing. Sam copied him, keeping a hand over his pocket in, awkwardly trying to absently disguise the bump.

Mr. Bright saw them out, opening the door for them and bidding them a farewell from the top of his steps. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a speeding little girl who stopped short next to her father. She had curly hair smoothed into a braid, with curls messily springing up over her eyes.

Sam and Dean paused, facing her and then looking up to her father questioningly.

"Hiya, Tat," Mr. Bright smiled down to her, before looking up to the brothers. "This is Tabitha, my daughter." His smiled puckered and he held her close, but she didn't seem to respond.

She just stared at them, eyes wide with curiosity, gaze held unflinchingly. Sam imagined that those staring eyes would follow after him for the rest of his life, they'd creep into his soul and bleed into his nightmares.

There was something very off about her. Something possessively off.

And Sam felt a twitch, in his stomach, the same flavour as that time he sensed someone was lying. It was Sarah's blood, tweaking his system, warning him that something was off. Sam didn't react though, keeping a pleasant smile on his face and sending the demon a warm look.

"She hasn't spoken," Mr. Bright offered, to fill the silence, looking down at his daughter and smoothing her hair back. "Not since Steve disappeared."

The door closed and Dean shot Sam a meaningful glance.

"So," his older brother said, as they settled into their strides and made out to the impala. "Definitely possessed daughter, son who might have summoned it."

Sam grimaced, uncomfortable. "Dean, we can't _kill_ that little girl."

Dean seemed to hesitate, but it wasn't out of disagreement. And maybe it was because he was always supposed to be the hardass, and maybe it was because from the first moment that they'd been thrust towards each other and told to hold on as tightly as they could, Dean had always been keen on taking the hard road. But when he looked over at Sam, his eyes were bright, but cautious. "Yeah. I know."

* * *

"Cas managed to gank the three demons we traced from being the main instigators for the crash," Meg informed them as the brothers entered into the bar where they'd arranged to meet, greeted by Meg's dissatisfied scowl and Cas's ducked head.

"Good," Dean said, refusing to acknowledge Meg's side of the story. His brother, however, was not so forgiving.

"So you weren't able to get anything on Crowley?" Sam asked, and Meg shook her head.

"No, actually, so I'm as far from finding Crowley as I ever was."

"Well, maybe not," Sam said, pulling Steven's book from his pocket and offering it to the demon. "Witchcraft. That missing kid was dabbling in it and we think his sister has been possessed."

"Got any proof?" Meg asked, leafing through the book, frown growing.

Cas broke his silence, prompted by curiosity. "Yes. How can you tell?"

"I, I _sensed _it," Sam managed, holding his hand unconsciously over his stomach, looking from Dean, who had heard his version on the car road over, and then to Cas, who's eyes widened with understanding.

"Sariel's blood," Cas said, reverently, almost breathless.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, pulling his hand away and resting it on the table between them. He wasn't sure how he felt, but he knew that the affects were fading. Sarah had said a week, and he was inclined to believe her. He just wasn't sure if he was inclined to be happy about it.

Because she'd more or less said that the reason he was losing her grace o quickly was because he hadn't purified himself completely with the trials. And he was still tainted by the demon blood and by Lucifer and by all those other things he had no way to control.

And it just wasn't _fair_.

"Anything else, any symptoms, major changes in manner?" Meg asked, fingering her lip thoughtfully, running through the facts. "The ones we met were pretty basic, from what we could tell." She scowled. "Before Cas _killed _them."

Cas looked exasperated. "They were about to _kill _you, Meg."

"I could've taken 'em."

"Uh, she...hasn't been speaking since her brother disappeared?" Dean attempted, interrupting the sour demon and defensive angel, looking across at Sam who gave him a very unhelpful, noncommittal shrug.

But Cas and Meg both nodded, turning easily from their disagreement to the matter at hand. Cas looked to Meg who had turned back to the Latin, eyes narrowing as she read through a passage. "Yes, that is a common symptom of being possessed by a very lesser class demon."

"Whoa, wait, how low can you go?" Dean asked, looking from Meg, who'd raised her head from the spell book.

Meg shrugged, not interested. "Super low."

"I thought...I thought _black _eyed demons who were the lowest," Sam frowned, looking at Meg, who slammed her book shut, glaring at Sam.

"Uh, _excuse _me?"

"Oh, you know what he meant," Cas chastised, and Meg did back down, sighing and not replying, muttering to herself as she translated one of the pages. Cas looked thoughful as he turned back to the boys. "The classes of demons aren't as easily spelled out as angelic factions. Demons create more power and can move through the ranks easily, and therefore their places are fluid. Of course, demons like Lilith, Alistair and Abaddon had spelled out, easily read power sources and reaches. But especially black eyed demons, the system is..." Cas made a face. "Blurred, at best."

"Right," Sam nodded, not understanding in the slightest.

"Hey, Pigpen, Linus, Charlie," Meg called over, looking up from the book. "Lucy has something."

"What's happened, Meg?" Cas asked frowning down at the page she was reading, narrowing his eyes.

"This book," she waved it up, pages flapping unceremoniously amongst the smokey, disgusting air of the bar. A few men from a table or so over glanced up as she caught their attention, but returned to their beers pretty soon after that. Dean loved bars for that exact reason. A non-personal, nearly entirely private forum to run over ideas. He could yell that Lilith was in town and some guy would pass it off as a drunk dream.

The hunting community really relied on alcohol far beyond than just as anti-depressants.

"What about it?" Dean frowned. He paused and rewound, taking it into account again. "It _is _a spell book, right?" As much as he knew about witches, he still hadn't bothered to pick up beyond the very most basic of Latin. Sam had managed to get him to learn the English version of an exorcism, but beyond that he was pretty much helpless. Sam, on the other hand, had always had a knack for it. In the beginning, after he'd gotten over his initial fear (in the very, _very _beginning), there'd been a time when hunting wasn't so bad. And where Dad was a hero and the monsters he fought were the baddies. In that time, Sam had memorised Verb charts and noun declensions, swallowed up rules and exceptions, and read all he could on prepositions and set phrases. But that time blurred passed pretty quickly, and Dean had bitterly waved it farewell.

One of the monsters, one of those whom Dean had been certain was evil and wrong, when the world wasn't a mismatched turn of shades of grey, scoffed derisively and threw the book onto the table. "Whole lot of nothing, fellas."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, picking it up gingerly and looking through it, removing, with a small wince, one of Meg's bar nuts from the spine of one of the pages.

"It's all small time crap," Meg waved her hand derisively. "Fixing plants and assisting in illnesses. Nothing even _remotely _demon-summoning big. Not even sell-your-soul to the demon big."

"So, there's no way Steve could have summoned the demon?" Sam asked fruitlessly, running a hand through his hair and carefully closing the book, letting it lie on the table for them all to look at, caught up in the step back of the moment.

"Nope," Meg shrugged. She turned to Cas questioningly. "Any way something this major could have summoned a demon?"

"Hardly," Cas shook his head. "If what you're saying is true, then there is very little possibility that Steven would have had that sort of power."

Meg looked at them both expectantly, but Dean just gazed at her coldly.

"Meg, we _believed _you."

"Would've been a first," Meg muttered.

"So what?"

"Well, now I think I might be right," Meg sighed.

"Got some plan you want to share?" Dean asked, torn between suspicion and curiosity.

"Not plan, _theory_," Meg stressed. She slumped into her seat and crossed her arms moodily. "I don't think the demons here are Crowley's. I mean, I had my suspicions, but really..." she trailed off and sighed again, taking her time to finish up. "Demons this loud, this dominant? Crowley's stupid, but he's not that stupid. He knows that you're looking for him, especially after his suggestion about the souls paid off, and he knows that when you do find him, his luck might be running out."

"Who's demons are they, if they aren't Crowley's?" Sam asked, and Dean shared Sam's lack of enthusiasm. If there was _another _up and comer, Dean was going to shoot himself in the foot and use the recuperating period to buy a small business and move to San Francisco.

"Whoa, chill, nothing that severe," Meg assured them, eyebrows raised, raising her hands to placate them. "But I think that they're leader_less_. Like after Azazel was killed and all the demons went _haywire _until Lilith took the reins. So, yeah, they're like me." Meg bared her teeth in a grin. "Side acts in the Resurrection of Meg Masters."

"Great," Sam said moodily, joining Meg in slipping into a seat on the high bar table and pulling out a handful of nuts from the complimentary bowl in the middle of the table. "So now, we have to get the rest of them. Right?"

"Meg and I killed four already," Cas said nonchalantly, legitimately unconcerned with the fact that their tally sat nicely at 4-0. "This one should be no trouble."

"I'll wear my hunting jacket," Meg told them easily, looking like she was ready to head off.

"Well, there's this thing," Dean said, uncomfortable. "It's inside a girl. Just a kid."

Meg blinked. "I'll wear my hunting jacket..._sadly_."

"Meg, we're not killing an innocent little girl," Sam snapped, and Dean almost looked over at his brother in surprise. It was the most intense and angry he'd gotten over something in a while.

Meg paused. "May I ask why?"

"Because she's...just a kid," Dean said, grasping out for some way to say that she had her whole life in front of her, that she didn't ask for this, that her father had already lost a son, that she was _just a kid_.

"You kill adults all the time," Meg pointed out.

And perhaps Dean had unsensitised himself to killing humans, fully grown humans, but there was something that got to him, when he thought about Tabitha, and thought about her brother. Siblings, motherless, entangled with the supernatural. Things had been written a little different for him and Sam, and maybe that's where they would have ended up.

And he sure as hell'd be pissed if someone killed his brother without him there to protect him.

"Too bad," Dean said gruffly, pulling away from the table and looking to Sam to copy him, who did, after swallowing a couple more bar nuts. "Our case, our rules."

Cas looked relieved, nodding to Dean, preparing to farewell, and Meg just rolled her eyes, muttering something about 'communism' and 'un-American'.

* * *

The demon possessing the body of Tabitha Bright was having problems with the steering. Not a particularly smart demon, it'd been chasing motor skills since her possession a few days ago, and was still working on the fine tuning. It'd figured out running and breathing, finger twitching and blinking, but it had been such a long time since it had possessed someone, and a longer time since it had been entirely human.

The thing about demons so low level, is that they were probably heinous people in a last life. Being terrible once doesn't constitute power later, and it's sort of part of Hell's torture, that they give the bad things nothing, and the good everything.

Lilith was the first pure, corrupted soul. A child, like the one it was possessing now.

Lucifer himself had been the angel of light, struck down, turned gruesome and savage.

The demon wondered what was happening with that. What Lucifer was doing. Whether the apocalypse was still going to happen.

It was all a bit exciting, really.

The phone rang shrill throughout the house, and copying Tabitha's muscle memory, the demon followed the sound to the phone. It picked up the receiver and held it next to Tabitha's ear. Tabitha automatically went to open her mouth to speak, but the demon had no way to move the tongue, or direct the lips, so it just stayed there, pressing the receiver against its ear.

"Hello, Tabitha," a voice at the other end said. The demon didn't know if it was male or female, and it was of no fault of the line or the other person. Everything was getting furry and distant, and the world took a sharp dive. "Your fathers out. Working, isn't he? Are you old enough to stay home alone?"

The demon unconsciously rubbed at a spot of the babysitters blood on her hand and didn't answer, staring at the wall.

"Are you listening?"

The demon didn't respond.

"Good," the other line crackled for a bit, before the low, purposeful voice at the other end started to talk again. "_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis—"_

The demon might not have been smart, but it knew better than to listen to an exorcism, using Tabitha's small hands to slam the phone back into the receiver, effectively shutting it up. It took deep breaths, trying to quell the nauseating turn in its stomach and the shortness of its breath.

"Satanica potestas," Sam announced walking into the room without smiling, without regard, staring at the demon with shadow kissed eyes. He paused as the demon fell back under the exorcism. "Sorry. I let myself in."

The demon snarled at him and tried to claw, but something held him back. Strong arms wrapped around the young girls middle, and heavy hands pressed her arms into her back. The demon snarled, but the man was unforgiving. "Remember us?"

The demon did. The two agents, who'd come to investigate Steve's death. They must have been hunters, although the last time the demon had checked, Hunters moved around the darkness, not through it. Hunters were the things that battled the shadows, not embraced it. Hunters were to be feared, yes, but for their prowess. Not for their trickery or darkness.

The demon had to wonder, as it screamed again and the exorcism was finished being recited, just how long it had been dead.

And how much darker the world would become _after _it had climbed out again.

* * *

"_Tabitha Bright, the sister of Steven Bright who had disappeared a few days ago from his Brooklyn home, was found unconscious last night as emergency services were called to the Bright household after the youngest was heard screaming. This is particularly notable, considering that Mr. Bright informed reporters that his youngest had not spoken since her brother had been taken."_

"Are you going to listen to this the whole drive?" Sam asked, groaning as he sat back in his chair.

"Course not," Dean said, grinning over as Sam adjusted himself into the leather. "Gotta finish at some point, right?"

Sam groaned and rested his hands over his eyes, and Dean tried not the scoff a spout of laughter at him and his ridiculous pose.

"_The body of Kate Lake, a Brooklyn native and babysitter to the Bright's was found murdered in the living room. Police, at the moment, refuse to comment on leads but have given out a statement that causes us to believe that they have several in mind. Mr. Bright—"_

Sam sighed and leant forward, snapping the radio off and huffing back into his seat, the sound of his turning vaulted in the silence.

"So," Dean said, looking over again, eager to find the deserted roads and backstreet towns that they'd claimed as their own. "Back to the bunker?"

"Recalibrate, read up, catch some sleep," Sam listed sleepily, hands held comfortably over his chest, not looking up as the night lights of the city passed them by. Meg and Cas had decided to leave as soon as they were finished with exorcising Tabitha. And both had gone their separate ways. Meg had disappeared off to who-knows-where tracking down Crowley, and Cas had decided to follow up on Sarah's concern about a growing resistance against her and Heaven. So the fellowship had broken, and their odd passage of heaven and hell had dispersed into their fitting places.

Cas was off to smite the unrighteous, and Meg was off to gain power.

The fittingness of the situations almost seemed uncomfortable to Dean, but he ignored it. Meg deserved her freedom, and Cas would reason with the angels, do everything he could, before he killed them.

The world was changing, but it wasn't the major events, but the small details.

Cas had assured them that Tabitha was probably the last demon terrorising Brooklyn, seeing as they were very territorial at best and seemed to despise sharing of any kind. He said that any signs had disappeared completely after Tabitha had been exorcised.

Dean wasn't convinced, but they'd had to leave. Someone would have seen them breaking into Tabitha's house, and their descriptions would prompt Mr. Bright to remember them.

_That _they didn't need.

"You ok, Sammy?" Dean asked finally, trying to summarise going to Hell, meeting Meg, taunting by Lucifer and exorcising a child in the cusp of one sentence.

It was enough though and Sam, though he seemed dimmed and resting, had a brightness to his eye that shone _thankfulness _mingled with uncontrollable grief.

"I think so," Sam finally said, like he was trying to carry a lot in one sentence as well. Like the words he was saying spelt out something bigger than it actually was. "You know? I finally think so."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, letting the road roll under his tires and the earth tilt so that he might never have to slow down. "Yeah, I get you."

* * *

The Impala's mileage was appalling, but that didn't stop Sam from withholding grumbling when Dean made his bi-daily stop for gas. Dean filled it up, and as soon as he had, he sent Sam in to buy snacks and, if they had it, a box of water to be kept in the back seat.

"Hey," Sam greeted the cashier, holding a packet of chips, a packet of M&M's and four bottles of water; all they had left.

"Good morning," she greeted kindly, taking the objects from him and putting them across the scanner. She smiled at him as she placed the first of his items in a plastic bag. "I'm Kristy."

"Hi, uh, Edward," Sam said, his smile a little forced but more out of eagerness to be gone than awkwardness in her company, choosing the name of the credit card he had on him at the time. "Nice day."

"Sure is, especially at this time of year," she agreed, picking up the first of the plastic bags and placing it on the counter for Sam to pick up. "You heading somewhere special, Ed?" Kristy asked, placing the first of the water in, looking at him with interest.

Sam supposed that she didn't get many customers at this part of the world, so he nodded, involving himself in the conversation. "Yeah, me and my brother. We're heading to Kansas City for some Police Convention."

Kristy looked even further intrigued, packing in the last of the water with a reluctant shove and taking it out of the bay for him to take a hold of. "Huh. That is cool. You and your brother policeman?"

"Well, yeah," Sam said, taking the second bag and handing over the cash. "I'm the detective, though."

"Very impressive," Kristy smiled at him and handed over a receipt. "See you soon, then."

"Yeah," Sam thanked her, shooting her a quick half smile before making for the door and the satisfying rumble of the impala parked just outside. "Thanks, see you."

The door swung shut, and Kristy looked after Sam unblinkingly. Her nametag glistened in the early morning sun and her blonde hair was in easy curls about her neck. She looked clean and safe, but if you looked at her hands and saw how tightly they held things, or how her lips arched into a disgusted scowl when she thought no one was looking, you might catch your breath, count your sins realise that there was something wrong.

That this angel, with blonde hair and a good, Christian Daddy was far from an angel at all.

Kristy didn't close her eyes for a long time after the impala drove away.

"Goodbye, Sam."

* * *

_Dun, dun dun!_

_Don't forget to leave a review, shoot me a PM or CONTACT ME using only SMOKE SIGNALS and spelling out ARCHAIC LATIN using military grade MORSE CODE._

_Next Chapter: __**All You Need Is Love**_


End file.
